


Paradise (spread out with a butter knife)

by Sarah_Sandwich



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF Peter Parker, BAMF Wade Wilson, Confident Peter Parker, Deadpool being Deadpool, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Friendship is Magic, Humor, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Marvel Cinematic Universe Compliant, POV Peter Parker, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter Parker is a Mess, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Wade Wilson, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, The real treasure was the friends we made along the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 72,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Sandwich/pseuds/Sarah_Sandwich
Summary: He sighs from where he’s prone, arms akimbo, and roof gravel digging into his spine. “I lost my job. My… other job. The one that actually pays the bills.”He doesn’t want to dwell on why he’s telling Deadpool of all people. Surely it has nothing to do with his desperate lack of friends. MJ is in California chasing her dreams, Harry’s undergoing treatment for his mental health and isn’t allowed visitors (not that it matters since they blacklisted Peter after last time), and Gwen… Well.And it’s not like he can talk to Aunt May without her worrying about him starving to death under a bridge or something so… Deadpool it is. Man, when did his life get this pathetic?OR: The one where Peter and Wade are literal soulmates but don't realize it for literal years because they're literal idiots.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Wade Wilson, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Wade Wilson & Old People
Comments: 293
Kudos: 1198
Collections: Neddea's favourites





	1. Baby Don’t Dance

_This is Where it Starts_

“Nice of you to dress up for the occasion,” Stark says, his mouth twisted in a grimace as he looks Peter’s suit up and down. “You dig that out of your old man’s closet?”

He can admit, the suit isn’t the most fashionable of men’s wear. In fact, it was already out of fashion when he found it at the thrift store seven years ago and he hasn’t had the time to sew patches over where the brown fabric has faded to tan on the elbows, but it’s the only suit he owns and he couldn’t show up to a wedding in nothing but his Spidey suit.

“You don’t like it? I picked out the tie special for your big day.” He smooths a red-gloved hand down his chest and bites back a grin at Stark’s puckered expression. In reality he’s owned the gold tie with the little Iron Man helmets on it for far longer than he’ll ever admit and he couldn’t waste the opportunity to flaunt it in front of the tin man himself.

Stark hums in the back of his throat and gulps a mouthful of champagne. “Well this has been fun. Remind me to set up an appointment with my guy to get you a real suit. We can upgrade your spandex while we’re at it.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“We’ll see. Where’s my wife?” He scans the room and his whole demeanor softens as he spots Pepper. His lips curl into an unconscious smile as his feet carry him toward her like he’s being pulled by a magnet. “Take it easy, kid,” he calls over his shoulder. “Stay away from the bar. You know I don’t condone underage drinking.”

“That joke went stale half a decade ago,” Peter yells after him but he’s pretty sure it’s lost under the dull roar of dozens of conversations and the whine of the string quartet set up next to the stage. It doesn’t matter that he’s rapidly approaching 30. Tony, like most of the Avengers, refuses to accept that he’s a full-grown adult now. That’s the drawback of having been on the superhero scene since he was a squeaky little 15-year old swinging around the city in a ratty homemade suit.

He considers going to the bar and getting shit-faced out of spite but it’s so much work to get drunk and he doesn’t want to stay much longer anyway. He has to work in the morning and he’s been pushing his luck lately with Jameson. He can’t afford to show up hungover.

Not for the first time he quietly curses Tony. Only the filthy rich would see no issue with getting married on a Tuesday. Actually, he’s pretty sure it’s some kind of power play. If not for Pepper, he’d have had no qualms laughing in Tony’s face and ignoring the invitation entirely but Pepper was the one who cornered him after a team up and she personally handed him his invitation. She’d spouted off some PR reasonings about it helping his perpetually spiraling vigilante rep to be seen bumping elbows with the Avengers in a social setting but she also smiled and touched his elbow and told him she’d love to see him there.

He talks a big game, but he resigned himself to attending the moment he pinched the cardstock between in his fingers. It takes a stronger man than he to deny Virginia Potts.

 _Potts-Stark,_ he reminds himself. He supposes he’ll have to get used to that.

He glances over at the couple in question and grimaces. In typical soulmate fashion, they’re forehead to forehead on the dance floor, lost in their own little world despite the gobs of people surrounding them. It took them longer than most to work their way to this moment. They’ve known for at least a decade that they’re soulmates but Pepper refused to date him until Tony cleaned up his act and cut back on first, the drinking and partying and second, the suicide missions.

Her refusal to budge seems to have finally paid off. They look radiant and he doesn’t mean the designer wedding dress and tux.

Happy. They look happy.

 _Ugh,_ maybe the bar isn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Hey, Spidey!”

He turns and finds Scarlet Witch _—Wanda,_ as she keeps asking him to call her—waving at him from a table on the edge of the dance floor. Val and Franklin Richards, Cassie Lang, and the Barton kids are all at the table with her, laughing and looking effortlessly glamorous in their Sunday best.

“Come sit with us!” Wanda shouts to him.

He waves back and pretends he can’t hear her as he books it towards the bar. Does she know he has enhanced senses? Probably not? Most supers don’t seem to realize the full extent of his abilities and he’s not in a hurry to clue them in. The more they learn about him, the more they expect him to get… chummy. Not that he has anything against them but he has a secret identity to maintain and there’s no reason to make it harder by making friends with people who can only ever know half of him.

Not to mention, the last thing he needs is be caught at _the kid table._ He’s an adult, dammit. Exempting Wanda, they’re the children of other heroes so they’re always going to be thought of as “the kids”, a title he’s been desperately trying to shuck for the past decade. It also doesn’t help that they all have soulmates. Watching the ink appear on their skin as their special someone writes them little notes across their forearm or doodles across their palms always puts him in a sour mood. It’s fine when they’re all suited up fighting baddies, but at events like this when showing off your ink is basically part of the dress code? Well, let’s just say his secret identity isn’t the only reason he likes being fully covered.

No sooner has he sat at the bar than a glass of lemonade is set in front of him, complete with a bendy straw and a little pink umbrella.

“Uhh, I didn’t order this,” he tells the bartender, a balding man with dark ink swirling up his forearms and disappearing under the sleeves of his black t-shirt. Idly, he wonders if they’re his tattoos or his soulmate’s. Or maybe he doesn’t have a soulmate so he got his own ink to make up for it.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t considered doing the same. Then maybe his perpetually blank skin wouldn’t get so many pitying stares.

“Stark’s orders,” the bartender says without looking at him as he starts mixing another drink. “Unless you show ID, you’re on the lemonade diet.”

Of fucking course. Trust Tony to think he’s hilarious and block him from getting wasted. In hindsight, he probably made the comment about underage drinking because he knew it’d drive him straight into his private little joke. He glares at the lemonade.

The song ends and everyone claps politely as the quartet sets aside their instruments and Tony steps onto the stage, microphone in hand. Oh no. Is it time for the speeches already? People drift towards the stage while Tony greets the room with an off-color joke just this side of unoffensive in true Tony Stark fashion.

He hates the speeches. He hates the lovesick looks the couples always share. He hates the mushy getting-together stories. He hates the inside jokes. He hates _weddings._

He stands. He did what he came to do. Appearance made. Congratulations given. He doesn’t need to stick around for this.

He leaves the lemonade on the bar but plucks out the little umbrella and tucks it into his breast pocket because he’s man enough to admit it’s cute as hell.

~*~

He collapses onto the couch—sans party suit but still wrapped in spandex—and stretches his arms across the back. His head drops back with a relieved sigh, mask dangling from his fingertips while he rolls the little pink umbrella between the finger and thumb of his other hand.

Home sweet home. No speeches, no annoying socialites, no lovey-dovey couples. Just him and his thoughts.

The mildew smell from the bathroom wafts over him as the clock in the kitchen marks each passing second. Next door, his neighbor slams a door and yells something about a parking ticket. One floor up, a toilet flushes. It clogged. He can tell. Don’t ask.

Staring up at the Obama-shaped water stain on the ceiling, he gives it another ten ticks before he sighs and tosses the little umbrella on the coffee table. In the same motion, he yanks his mask over his head.

“Make sure the roaches don’t overrun the place while I’m out, Mr. President,” he says, then wrenches open the window and leaps into the stagnant summer heat.

~*~

_This is more like it._

He arches back into a flip then drops into a steep dive, only thwipping out a web at the last second before he becomes road pizza and then he’s whipping back up into the black night sky, the lights of the city splayed out before him. He’s light as air. Nimble as the fingers of a seamstress. As carefree as a kid in a bodega with ten bucks burning a hole in their pocket. Life is good and he’s ready to kick some ass.

A clang and a muffled curse draw him towards a rooftop a block over and he effortlessly changes direction. He swings through the shadows and lands lightly against the wall before climbing the rest of the way up to peek over the edge. There’s a group of darkly dressed figures huddled around the roof access door. He spots two crowbars, a couple of knives, and a gun and that’s really all the information he needs before he pulls himself onto the roof with a fun little flip.

“Oh man, did _all_ of you forget your keys?”

They scramble away from the door, some towards him while others stumble back in shock.

“It’s the Spider!”

“Fuck! Don’t let him use his webs!”

“Shoot him, Owen!”

 _Adorable._ He’ll never tell anyone but he secretly loves it when the call him _The Spider._ It makes him feel like such a badass. He attaches a line of web to the chest of the idiot who thinks he has a say in whether or not he uses his webs and yanks himself into the fray.

They go down easy, all things considered. Owen doesn’t even get a chance to fire his gun before he whips it out of his hands and webs it to the ground. He almost wishes they would’ve put up more of a fight. Okay, full honesty? He totally wishes they would have put up more of a fight, but that’s not a very heroic way of thinking so he tries to ignore it. There will be others. Maybe the next crime he stumbles across will present more of a challenge.

He raises his wrist to fire a web at the rooftop across the street when his Spidey sense suddenly flares in a directionless spike of warning just as a wolf whistle pierces the still night air. He spins around but doesn’t have to look far.

 _Deadpool_ is leaning against the bricked up roof access on the next building over.

Peter groans. “Not you.”

He’s never had the… pleasure of meeting Deadpool but he’s been briefed a la S.H.I.E.L.D. about what to do if the mercenary shows up in New York. _Fuck._ There goes his quiet night on the town.

Either Deadpool doesn’t hear him or he ignores him. “Damn, Spidey. I love watching you work, babe. You’re rougher than I thought you’d be. Not that I’m complaining! I’m totally turned on, don’t worry. But I think you broke baldy’s collarbone and Mr. Face Tattoo is gonna be walkin’ funny for the next week and not in a sexy way.”

Peter glances at the unconscious criminals webbed to various surfaces across the roof and feels a spike of shame. He was a little more uh, forceful than he typically is with petty criminals. Usually he saves the heavy hits for the actual villains and tries to take down the nonviolent criminals with as little physical violence as possible.

“What are you doing here, Deadpool?” he asks, shoving his guilt aside to address the problem at hand.

Deadpool squeals and fans himself, bouncing on his toes. “Oh. Em. Gee! He’s heard of us! Oh wow, I’m not prepared for this. Maybe we should— No, you’re right, you’re right. Play it cool. We’ve got this.”

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s file covered Deadpool’s obsession with him in mortifying detail. It was the whole reason they sought him out to brief him on the mercenary in the first place. They assumed (rightly, it would seem) that this would happen should a job ever bring Deadpool to New York.

They also mentioned his tendency to talk to people that aren’t there.

“Right. Umm, so what are you—,”

“Hold on!” Deadpool shouts. “I’m coming across.” He backs up several steps and makes a running leap across the alley between his roof and Peter’s. He sails through the air and at first Peter thinks he’s going to make it, but then his toes hit the lip of the roof and he slips. “Woop!” he exclaims and then plummets out of sight.

“Oh, come on!”

Peter sprints the short distance between him and the ledge and leaps down the chasm of the alley just as Deadpool’s body hits the concrete below with a wet crunch. Using a web to slow his momentum, he lands lightly beside the crumpled red and black suit.

For a second, he thinks he’s dead but then Deadpool groans and shifts onto his back, both of his legs turned at unnatural angles and the bone sticking out of his left forearm. Blood pools under him.

Peter looks away from the exposed bone, mastering his gag reflex, to Deadpool’s masked face.

“Are you okay?” he asks stupidly.

The file went over Deadpool’s insane healing factor in as much detail as possible. Even S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t know the full extent of it but they have it on record that he’s taken fatal blows more than once and essentially walked them off. So he knows in theory that he’ll be fine in a matter of hours, if not minutes but still… he just fell two stories. It’d be wrong not to ask.

“Shit, this is so embarrassing. I knew I’d fall apart if I ever met you in person.” He snickers as he wrenches his leg back into place with a nauseating crunch. “Hey, actually this is the perfect meet-cute. When we tell people our get-together story we can say I fell for you the moment we met.” He giggles again and snaps his other leg into place while Peter watches in morbid fascination. “And then we’ll tell them about how you were a hard nut to crack but I eventually wore you down with enough promises of sensual back massages after hard nights fighting baddies. Pure romance!”

He has to look away while Deadpool pokes a finger into his arm to lift the flesh out of the way. There’s another sickening crunch as he presumably sets his arm and then Peter chances a glance down at him and finds him looking back, his mask stretched into a wide grin.

“Aww baby boy’s squeamish. That’s okay schnookums. I know it hurts to see the ones you love in pain.”

“That’s not— Would you cut it out with the pet names? What are you doing here?”

“You don’t like the names?” Deadpool pouts, his mask contorting into the expression with horrifying dexterity. How does he do that? “Or maybe I just haven’t found the right one yet. I’ll work on it. Anything for you, pumpkin butt.”

“That’s— I don’t— Ugh!” The file did say he’s a master at distraction. He just didn’t expect _this_ to be what they meant. “Answer the question.”

“I did!”

“Not that one! _What are you doing here?”_

“Ohhh, well see there’s a taco truck around the corner and I’m trying to find the best Mexican place cuz I’m gonna be here a while and so far—,”

“You know that’s not what I mean!” He does, right? He knows? He’s not actually crazy? The file said he’s intelligent but… well he’s gonna reserve judgment on that one until he sees some evidence first-hand.

“Oh man, I’m so sorry, Webs,” Deadpool says. He slumps back against the wall and presses the back of his palm to his forehead like a swooning damsel on the silver screen. “My brain just gets all in a fog after I’ve taken this much damage. It’s the healing factor you see. I’m afraid I’m going to be all over the place until I can get some food in me.”

Peter glares down at him. He’s lying and he’s not even trying to hide it but what else can he do? He needs to know why he’s in New York so he can report back to S.H.I.E.L.D. and then Deadpool can be their problem.

“What kind of Mexican?” he asks through gritted teeth. “Authentic or with enough grease to kill a horse?”

For just a moment, surprise shows through on Deadpool’s mask, but it’s there and gone so fast it could have been a trick of the light.

“Grease me up and slow roast me on the spit! Baby boy, I am yours. Is this really happening or am I hallucinating again? No wait don’t answer! I want to enjoy this while I’m almost convinced it’s real.”

Ignoring his babbling, Peter takes advantage of his distraction and webs his uninjured arm to the wall. “Stay here.” He doesn’t wait for a response before shooting a new web and hauling himself out of the alley and above the street.

“Definitely a turn on,” he hears Deadpool say behind him. “You think this stuff comes out of him? Kinky. Just wait ‘til I tell Weasel that Spidey shot his spider gunk all over me.”

This is a mistake.

Still, he’s got a job to do and if tacos are what it’ll take to get Deadpool to cooperate then… Well, rent isn’t due for another week. He’s got time to make up the shortage.

Ten minutes later, he returns to the alley to find Deadpool silent in a way that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. For a moment, he thinks he’s dead. Then his foot scuffs against the ground and Deadpool’s head snaps up.

“Holy shit he came back. Looks like we aren’t mutated sewer rat dinner after all. Oh my God, and he brought us food. Yeah I _know_ I’m definitely hallucinating. Shut up and let me enjoy it!”

Peter glances at the ripped strands of webbing hanging from the wall, then to Deadpool’s free arm, then to the twin swords sheathed on his back. Right. He probably should have expected that.

“How long until you can walk?” he asks. He’d rather not eat in this dank piss-soaked alley but he’s not going to hang around for hours waiting for Deadpool’s healing factor to get him back on his—

Deadpool jumps to his feet so fast that Peter jumps back and nearly drops the sack of food as he falls into a defensive crouch. Deadpool stares down at him, arms at his sides, looking as nonthreatening as someone with that many weapons strapped to that many muscles is capable of—clearly not attacking.

Peter straightens up, feeling like an idiot.

“Damn,” Deadpool says, his playful tone falling away for the first time. “I’m not hallucinating, am I?”

“No,” Peter says slowly. “What gave it away?”

“If this was all in my head you wouldn’t be scared of me.”

“I’m not _scared_ of you.” Wary, yes. But scared? Pfft. He’s Spider-Man! He can—

Deadpool lunges at him and this time he does drop the bag of tacos as he springs away, latching onto the wall, ready to launch off of it and into a fight if he needs to, but Deadpool doesn’t come after him. He stops next to the fallen food and crosses his arms over his chest as he turns to regard him on the wall.

“Scared.”

“Am not!” He shakes his head. What is he? Five? “You’re a killer. I’m not stupid enough to let my guard down just because you act crazy.”

Deadpool laughs without an ounce of mirth. “It’s not an act, Web-head.” He picks up the sack of tacos. “Thanks for dinner.” He turns and starts walking toward the street.

He should let him go. He should take the loss and report to S.H.I.E.L.D. the meager details he was able to pry out of him and then go home with the assurance that Deadpool is no longer his problem.

He should but… his tacos.

He sticks a web to the bag and yanks. The bag tears but quick as a whip, he fires a second web with his other shooter and seals the hole before yanking with both arms and bringing the webbed up bag safely into his lap as he sticks crouched on the wall by only the balls of his feet.

Deadpool whirls around.

“Half of these are mine,” Peter says. “If you want your half they’ll be on the roof.”

He doesn’t give him a chance to respond before he pulls himself up and out of the alley. He half expects a gunshot to follow him but his Spidey sense and the alley below stay silent until he’s safely on the roof next door to the webbed up criminals. Which reminds him, he still needs to call the cops to come collect them. Maybe he should choose a more distant rooftop to eat dinner on, but he’s not trying to lose Deadpool yet and he didn’t drop thirty dollars for cold soggy tacos. He’ll call after he eats. It’s not like they’re going anywhere.

That decided, he puts his back to the roof access building and plops down to sort out the tacos. He’s not 100% sure Deadpool will show but he’s annoyed enough that he doesn’t care one way or the other. He figures he’s done his due diligence as far as collecting intel for S.H.I.E.L.D. goes. He might as well get some dinner in him before he goes home. If Deadpool decides to eat with him then he can suffer his company a little longer on the off chance he’s able to glean some more information on what he’s doing in New York.

He has already scarfed down one taco when a grappling hook sails up into the air and catches the lip of the roof. He balls up the wrapper and drops it in the bag before unwrapping a second taco. He chews and listens to Deadpool grunt with effort as he hauls himself up two stories. His head pops up over the side just as he’s about to start in on his third taco. Pretty impressive time.

Deadpool seems surprised to find him there, mask rolled up over his nose, lounging comfortably against warm brick, grease soaking into his gloves. Peter doesn’t say anything to him and tips his head towards the pile of tacos strategically placed a few feet to his left.

Deadpool glances at Peter and then to the tacos as he winds up the long lead on the grappling hook and tucks it away into a pouch. Maybe it’s the light, but that pouch doesn’t look big enough to fit a hook that size.

“Didn’t think you’d stick around,” Deadpool finally says before sitting beside him closer than he’d like but not inappropriately close.

He shrugs. He doesn’t feel like explaining his methodology to Deadpool. Especially when it’s a simple as wanting all the bang for his buck.

“How does the spandex hold up against the grease?” Deadpool asks as he peels the foil from one of the tacos in his pile.

“It doesn’t,” Peter grumbles, briefly examining his greasy glove. “I’m gonna smell like taco grease for weeks.”

“Sweet ambrosia,” Deadpool snickers. He still hasn’t raised his mask even though his taco is primed and ready to be gobbled up.

“Only to you and every stray dog in New York. Better taco smell than blood though.” He cringes but instead of getting uncomfortable like everyone else does when Peter gets too real about what it’s like to fight crime every night, Deadpool laughs.

“Amen to that, sister.” He holds out his taco like it’s a champagne glass, waiting for a toast.

Peter pretends he doesn’t see and stuffs the last of his taco in his mouth and leans his head back against the brick to gaze up at the clouded-over night sky. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Deadpool finally lift his mask, just enough to expose his mouth. The taco is gone in two bites and the next rapidly follows.

Jesus. The eating noises alone are repulsive but coupled with the speed at which he hoarks them down, it makes for a grizzly sight. He can’t tell if he’s intentionally trying to gross him out or if he’s just… like that.

He must be starving. Whenever Peter’s healing factor has to take care of major injuries he always comes back out the other side ravenous. In a matter of minutes, Deadpool healed at least three broken bones and however many internal injuries he sustained in his fall. Four tacos will be lucky to take the edge off.

He plays with the foil wrapper on his last taco for a moment and then with a quiet sigh, he sets it next to Deadpool’s knee. Soft-hearted idiot.

“Uh-uh,” Deadpool says through a full mouth. He knocks the taco back towards him with a flick of his finger. “‘S yours. Eat up, baby boy.”

Well, if he insists. Peter’s never been one to turn down food. As soon as the taco is gone, he tugs his mask down over his chin and stretches out his legs with a content sigh. Dubious company aside, this is way better than being stuck at some stuffy wedding.

Deadpool tugs his own mask down to cover the scars Peter knew would be there and drops his wrapper in the pile between them.

Peter breaks the silence after only a few seconds. “Are you here to kill someone? You know I can’t let you, right?”

Deadpool scoffs. “You think you could stop me?”

“I’d have to try. Doesn’t matter what they’ve done. Murder isn’t the answer.”

“Why not?” Deadpool barks like it’s a question he’s asked a million times and has yet to receive a satisfactory answer to. “Why do they deserve to live? All those assholes out there hurting people and wrecking the world. Why do they deserve to live?”

“Maybe they don’t,” Peter says. “Doesn’t give us the right to decide who lives and who dies though.”

Apparently that wasn’t what Deadpool had been expecting. He stares at the side of Peter’s face long enough for him to grow uncomfortable in the silence.

He crosses his arms and asks, “So who is it? A gang leader? An unfaithful spouse to some rich asshole? The mayor? Who did someone else decide was too bad to live?”

“I’m not here on a job,” Deadpool finally says.

Peter snorts and turns to look at him. “You expect me to believe that? Why are you here then? Taking a vacation?” he asks scathingly. “Seeing the sights?”

“Believe what you want but it’s the truth. Needed a change of scenery and thought, why not New York? Lots of food options in New York.”

“Bullshit.”

Deadpool’s posture grows stiff. “I don’t need your blessing. You can’t stop me from doing whatever I want.”

Peter leans towards him and says in a low tone, “This is my city. My people. I’ll do whatever I have to to protect them.”

“Seems like a big job for one person.”

It is. _Too big._ That doesn’t mean he’s going to quit though. He can’t turn his back on them.

He gets to his feet, snatching up their bag of trash as he does. “No killing or you’re gone.”

“I liked your tie,” Deadpool blurts before he can web off into the night. “At the wedding. I wasn’t invited obviously but I caught most of it through my scope. Not nearly as uplifting when you can’t hear the vows. Had to make them up myself. I never knew Miss Virginia Potts was so openly _kinky.”_

“It’s Potts-Stark now.” Then the implicates of what he’s saying sinks in. “Are you threatening me?”

“What? No! I’m trying to say I know you’re being all Oliver Queen right now, _I must protect this city,_ but I know you’re secretly the kind of guy who wears an Iron Man tie to Iron Man’s wedding and cracks jokes at criminals as he beats them to a pulp.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I think we’d make a good team. You can teach me how to be good and I can pick up some of the slack in helping you keep the city safe. Win-win!”

Peter stares at him. For all that Deadpool seems genuine, he can’t believe he’s actually serious. Is everything a joke to him?

“I’ll see you around, ‘Pool,” he says after a beat. It’s been a long day and he’s done trying to parse words with a crazy mercenary.

“Oh c’mon! Don’t split up the dynamic duo already!”

“I hate to break it to you, but the dynamic duo is more like the dynamic uno,” he says and then steps off the roof.

“I understood that reference!” Deadpool shouts after him as he swings away.

If that brings a smile to his face that’s between him and the pigeons.

~*~

Getting debriefed with S.H.I.E.L.D. takes just as long as he expected it would. Meaning, he crawls through his living room window far past the wee hours of the morning, the rising sun nipping at his heels. There’s no point in sleeping. While his duties as Spider-Man come to a stand-still in the light of day, the duties that (theoretically) pay the bills do not and he couldn’t afford to take a day off _before_ he splurged on enough tacos to satisfy two enhanced individuals.

Speaking of tacos…

His stomach gurgles, reminding him that it’s been hours since he’s last eaten. Still, he goes to the coffee maker first. There’s some in the pot from yesterday morning and he’s neither beggar nor chooser—he skips the mug and the microwave and drinks it cold, straight from the pot.

Mastering his gag reflex, he starts a fresh pot brewing and digs through his cupboards for anything edible. His search turns up some stale saltine crackers and a can cream of mushroom soup which is basically an entire meal. He gets the soup in the microwave as his stomach lets loose a different kind of gurgle that has him rushing to the bathroom.

Once the tacos and coffee have finished having their way with his body he finds himself in front of the sink in his boxers and mask, contorting his face into different expressions. It doesn’t matter how he moves his face under the fabric, the mask remains stoically impassive. He rips his mask off in disgust and throws it on the floor with the rest of his suit.

How does he _do_ that?

Whatever. He’s done thinking about Deadpool. He’s going to eat his stinky soup and then he’s going to go to his stinky job, make nice with his stinky boss, then return home to his stinky apartment at which point he’ll go out and hopefully by then Deadpool will be out of town and no longer his problem. It’s the perfect plan.

~*~

“You can’t fire me! I have rent due!”

“Not my problem, Parker,” Jameson snaps. “Get clean and then see about coming back. I won’t have you dragging my reputation through the mud with your little drug problem.”

“I’m not on drugs! Test me, dammit! I’m clean!”

“Watch your mouth, kid. I don’t know what you’re on but it’s not normal to look and act like you do.”

“I just need sleep. I pulled an all-nighter and— What do you mean _how I act?”_

“You were talking to the coffee pot, son.”

“I was— It’s a delicate— That doesn’t mean I’m on drugs! You have no proof! I could sue you.”

Jameson laughs. “Betty, bring me the numbers. Let’s see… You’ve been late every day for the past two months. You’ve disappeared in the middle of the day a dozen times over the past three weeks alone and you’ve had seven no call no shows. You’re _fired,_ Parker. Now get the hell off my property!”

“You’ll be begging to have me back in a week. You know no one else can get the shots I can.”

“Of Spider-Man?” Jameson scoffs. “I don’t need photographs anymore.”

Peter goes still. This isn’t the first time he’s been fired by Jameson but he always hires him back because it’s true; no one else can get consistent, high-quality photos of his alter-ego. He makes sure of it. It literally pays to have a Spidey sense.

But if Jameson thinks he doesn’t need the pictures anymore…

“What are you talking about?”

“Aren’t you paying attention? The industry is changing. Adapt or die! Papers don’t sell. Everybody and their mother uses ad-block these days and running a blog isn’t going to keep bread on the table.”

“So, what? You’re selling the Bugle?” Impossible.

Jameson snorts. “Don’t be an idiot. Podcasting is the future and the Bugle is leading the charge, mark my words.”

“Hold on,” Peter says, putting a hand to his forehead like that’ll stop his mind from reeling, “you’re firing me so you can get into _podcasting?!”_

“Officially, I’m firing you because you’re an unreliable flake with some serious time management issues and a possible drug problem. Unofficially, yes. Now get the hell out! If I never see the bags under your eyes again it’ll be too soon!”

He slams his office door in his face and Peter can’t do anything but stand there with his camera bag cradled against his chest and stare at it in shock until Betty gently takes him by his elbow and steers him toward the door.

“He’s not gonna hire me back this time, is he?”

Betty bites her lip and then shakes her head. “I don’t think so, Pete. You gonna be okay?”

“Of course,” he says.

What’s he gonna do? He’s out of food. Rent is due next week. He’s still behind from last month and after splurging on tacos he doesn’t have enough to cover this month either. He’s going to lose his apartment. He can’t feed himself. He’s fucked.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, okay?” Betty says and he knows she means it. She’s good people. She’s something of a friend considering they’ve weathered working for Jameson together for almost a decade.

“What about you?” he asks. “He’s not going to fire you next, is he?”

She shakes her head with a sad smile. “He still needs someone to handle the administrative pieces whether he’s printing papers or yelling into a microphone. As long as the Bugle is bringing in money I’ll have a job here.”

“Good,” Peter says. The Bugle may be a constant thorn in his side but he hopes Jameson’s latest venture succeeds if only so his friend can keep a roof over her head.

“I’ll see you around, okay? You take care of yourself.”

“I will. Thanks, Betty.”

He’s _fucked._

~*~

When he gets back to his apartment he sits on the couch in silence, staring at the black TV screen. His patrol phone chimes with a notification from S.H.I.E.L.D. telling him that Deadpool was spotted heading toward the docks in Greenwich. He stares at his phone long after the screen goes dark.

It’s 10 am. He hasn’t slept. He needs to buy groceries. He needs to apply for unemployment. He needs to find a new job. He needs to eat something other than coffee and canned soup.

The very last thing he should be doing is putting on his suit and chasing after Deadpool. Someone else can do it. S.H.I.E.L.D. has the resources. They’d rather he do it because Deadpool is a huge Spidey fan and they don’t want to risk their agents, but Deadpool probably wouldn’t _kill_ them, right? He seemed unhinged last night yeah, but not murderous. Besides, it’s 10 am. Who kills a person at 10 am? Right? Right.

He digs his laptop out from under the couch and opens the folder titled “Job Search Crap” then pulls up the most recent copy of his resume. His stomach clenches and there’s a sour taste on the back of his tongue as he stares at the document. ‘ _Modified December 2010,’_ stares back at him, a yellow eye in the underbrush on the side of an empty highway. Job interviews, small talk with new co-workers, explaining his frequent tardiness—it all bears down on him like the maw of a beast clamping around his neck, cutting off his breath and taking him in a death roll.

He slams his laptop shut and all but throws it to the floor in his mad scramble for his suit. He’s _gotta_ get out of here.

~*~

“Hello? 911? I’d like to report a party pooper.”

“Excuse you, I’m a wet blanket. All my friends say so.”

“Ah ha! Friends, huh? So he does have a life outside of being New York’s sexiest vigilante.”

Peter snorts. Hardly. What little life he has is crumbling around his ears but he came here for the express purpose of avoiding dealing with that. Instead, he’s on the edge of the dock. Next to Deadpool. Who is sitting with his legs dangling over the water. Throwing pebbles into the river. Like a child.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. He sounds like a broken record at this point and he sort of hates himself for it. “At the docks, I mean.”

“What, a guy can’t hang out on the waterfront without getting the third degree for it? Check out that view.”

Peter doesn’t have to look to know all he’ll see is the murky brown of the Hudson and the smoggy New Jersey skyline running parallel with the river. Throw in a few seagulls, some trash, and whatever is making that rotting fish smell and you’ll get nothing resembling what he’d call a vacation destination.

And yet New York is constantly flooded with tourists. Hmmm.

“Is someone else here?” _Someone you’re planning to kill?_

There are dockworkers milling around as they’re wont to do in the middle of the day on a Wednesday but no one that screams ‘assassination target’.

“It’s just me and you, mi amor.” He sits up straight. “Sort of like a—,”

“Don’t say date.”

“Couples retreat!”

Peter groans. Why is this his life? Why didn’t he stay home and let Deadpool be S.H.I.E.L.D.’s problem?

Then he remembers his horrifically out of date resume and all at once sitting on the edge of the dock with Deadpool doesn’t seem so bad. He plops down beside him and digs up his own handful of pebbles and chucks a few at the water with unnecessary force.

“You’re really not here to kill anyone?”

“Depends. I could absolutely murder a hot dog right about now.” He turns to look at Peter and somehow he can tell he’s lifting an eyebrow through his mask. “You in?”

Peter’s stomach growls. “You’re buying this time.”

“It’s a date!”

Peter rolls his eyes and drops his pebbles in the river. Getting free lunch is sort of like getting his life together. At least it’s one less thing to worry about and if he can make sure Deadpool stays out of trouble for a little while longer then win-win, right? Right.

~*~

They end up taking their hot dogs onto a roof facing the waterfront to eat. He’s pleased to note Deadpool didn’t skimp and got half a dozen dogs with all the toppings to split between them.

Same as last night, Deadpool chatters incessantly as Peter works through his share of the meal. He waits until Peter is done eating and is peering over the edge to the bustling sidewalk below to lift his mask and scarf down the remaining dogs at a dangerous speed. His mask is back in place before he swallows down the last bite.

For both of their sake, Peter pretends this is normal.

“Is it just me or are you acting less crazy today?”

Deadpool snorts and sprawls on his belly with his head over the lip of the roof and a balled-up hot dog wrapper in his fist. “Crazy is an outdated term that perpetuates social stigma against neurodivergent people.”

“Uhh.” What the hell? That sounded not just intelligent but… conscientious? Is this the same Deadpool he met yesterday?

“The boxes are quiet today,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. Then he sucks his gloved finger between his lips and releases it with a wet pop. It shines under the sun as he holds it aloft. He nods slightly, then adjusts his wrapper ball to the left and releases it, his upper body hanging over the edge as he watches it fall.

“Hey!” Peter scrambles forward, a lecture about littering on the tip of his tongue but as he cranes forward over the lip of the roof, he spots the trash can several stories below them. The wrapper lands neatly inside while the people crowding the sidewalk remain oblivious.

Deadpool lets out an excited whoop and reaches for another wrapper. Peter watches in silence as he repeats the process and makes another perfect shot. He shouldn’t be able to feel the wind through his glove just like he shouldn’t be able to make that shot twice in a row by luck. It’s possible, but not likely. Three times would cinch it.

“Do it again,” he says.

Deadpool twists around to grin up at him, his mask forming the expression in that infuriatingly impossible way. “Oh? You like that, baby boy?”

“Just shut up and do it again.” He gets down on his belly beside him and watches Deadpool with an eagle eye, looking for any tricks, not that he can think of a single thing that would help him pull this off that wouldn’t require a hell of a lot of foresight and planning.

“So bossy,” Deadpool murmurs. “Gets me going.” He drops the wrapper and they both lean over the edge to watch it fall impossibly, perfectly, into the trash can.

“Did I impress you?”

“You’re the calculating air resistance and crosswind speed in your head.”

“Is that a yes?” Deadpool asks with that infuriating grin.

“Fuck you. Do it again.”

Deadpool laughs and happily obliges until they’re all out of hot dog wrappers.

“GET FUCKED YOU RAT WITH WINGS!” Deadpool screeches, shaking his fist. “THAT WAS _IN,_ GODDAMMIT!” He reaches for the gun in his thigh holster.

“Hey, hey! Cut it out! We don’t shoot pigeons!”

Deadpool crosses his arms under his chin and glowers murderously at the cluster of pigeons pecking around the base of the trash can. One of them is pushing around the wadded up hot dog wrapper it knocked out of the air just before it could make it into the trash. “Can’t shoot people. Can’t shoot pigeons. What’s left, huh? What makes life worth living?”

“Uhh tacos?”

Deadpool rolls onto his side and slaps a hand over his heart. “Ohmigod, you’re my soulmate.”

Peter goes stiff and forgets to breathe for a heart-stopping moment before he realizes Deadpool is speaking in hyperbole. He’s not _actually_ declaring that they’re soulmates. He’s just messing around like usual.

Deadpool ticks his head to the side and loses his playful aura as he squints at him. “You’ve got a soulmate,” he says, poking Peter’s chest.

“Cut it out,” he says weakly, shoving at his hand. Most people have soulmates. It’s not weird.

Deadpool clicks his tongue. “But you don’t know who it is. How does that even work? Isn’t the first thing people do is write their name on their arm?”

Right. The weird part is that he hasn’t met his soulmate even though he’s been an adult for almost a decade now. Most parents make their kids wait to meet their soulmate until adulthood, wanting them to have time to develop their own interests and become their own person, but it’s pretty much unheard of to not share names and addresses after turning 18. In fact, Peter’s is the only soulmate he’s ever heard of ignoring the bond entirely.

Whatever. It’s all bullshit anyway.

Peter regards Deadpool curiously. “You don’t have a soulmate?”

Deadpool snorts and rolls to his feet, slapping dirt from his suit forcefully. “Can you imagine? What kind of asshole would fuck up bad enough to get landed with me?”

That’s a valid point. He can imagine it would be something of a shock to find out you’ve been paired with a mercenary. Then again, he shouldn’t judge. What does it say about him that his soulmate hasn’t once ever reached out or written back? Clearly there’s something wrong with him too, only he wasn’t granted the small mercy of never being matched with anyone in the first place.

~*~

Rooftop meals become something of a thing after that. The routine goes: Peter gets a text from S.H.I.E.L.D. notifying him that Deadpool is doing something weird, he tracks him down and finds him doing something mundane, Deadpool suggests food, Peter insists Deadpool pay, Deadpool jokes about it being a date, and so on and so forth.

He’ll never say so but some days these impromptu meals are the only meal he gets.

Things on the home front, well… They haven’t improved. His final partial paycheck from Jameson was enough to stave off his landlord but he’s still waiting on that first unemployment check to come through. While he hasn’t been kicked out of his apartment yet (a minor miracle) it’s only going to last so long. His landlord sort of hates his guts and he’s not sure he’ll be able to placate her much longer. He only needs to hold out until that check comes and then he can blow the entire thing on rent and continue slowly starving to death but with a roof secure over his head.

“You seem more maudlin than usual. Talk to me, Spidey. Lay it all on Dr. Pool and maybe when you’re done baring your soul there’ll be a happy ending in it for you.” He waggles his eyebrows through his mask suggestively but Peter’s gotten pretty good at ignoring his come-ons. After he caught him sweet-talking a scrawny balding Wolverine cosplayer, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t actually mean it. He just likes sexual innuendos.

He sighs from where he’s prone, arms akimbo, and roof gravel digging into his spine. “I lost my job. My… other job. The one that actually pays the bills.”

He doesn’t want to dwell on why he’s telling Deadpool of all people. Surely it has nothing to do with his desperate lack of friends. MJ is in California chasing her dreams, Harry’s undergoing treatment for his mental health and isn’t allowed visitors (not that it matters since they blacklisted Peter after last time), and Gwen… Well.

And it’s not like he can talk to Aunt May without her worrying about him starving to death under a bridge or something so… Deadpool it is. Man, when did his life get this pathetic?

Deadpool hums. “For some reason I never imagined you having to live off a paycheck. I always just assumed the good deeds would sustain you or something.”

Peter snorts. If only.

“You need money? I got money,” Deadpool says. “I can be your sugar daddy! Please, please, please let me be your sugar daddy, Webs! It’s a dream I’ve had ever since five seconds ago!”

“No! I can’t— I’m not— I’m _fine._ Everything’s under control. Just sucks, you know? I hate job hunting.”

Deadpool sits up and a heap of hamburger wrappers cascades off his chest. “I know a job you could do.”

“Being your sugar baby isn’t a job, ‘Pool.”

“No, not that. A real job at uh, Pym… whatever it is.”

Peter sits up. “Pym? As in Pym Particles? As in, Hank Pym? The scientist? The research lab? That Pym?”

Deadpool snaps his fingers and points a finger gun at his chest. “That’s the one! I happen to know they’ve got an opening in R&D. Or they will soon. You made your tech right? I bet you’d fit right—,”

Peter jumps to his feet as his heart jumps into his throat. “What the fuck? Are you taking out a hit on one of Pym’s scientists?”

“Nooo,” Deadpool says unconvincingly.

“Dude!”

 _“I’m_ not. I just happened to catch wind that _someone_ is.”

“Are you _kidding me?”_

“Listen, I looked her up. This lady is bad news. Like, experiments on puppies bad. She says shit like ‘All Lives Matter’ and—,”

“What does that have to do with anything? We have to stop it!”

“We?”

“Yeah, _we._ You let it get this far now you’re on the hook for saving this woman’s life. Come on.” He squats down and gestures impatiently at his back.

“Am I dreaming? A Spidey-back ride?”

“I will drop you in traffic if you say that again. Hurry up before I change my mind.”

Deadpool doesn’t waste another second before clambering up onto Peter’s back and wrapping his arms and legs around him.

“You’ll need to hold on tighter than that,” Peter says and then launches off the building.

Deadpool squeals in his ear and his grip turns suffocating as they plummet. Then Peter shoots a web and they swing up and away from the sidewalk. A breathless laugh ghosts past his ear and then Deadpool’s breath catches audibly as Peter releases the web and they begin to fall again. He thwips out another web and they begin another arc.

“WOOHOO!” Deadpool crows at the height of the arc, loud enough to make him flinch and to catch the attention of the people on the sidewalk below.

A reluctant smile tugs his lips. Yeah. Web swinging is pretty awesome. It’s kinda cool that someone gets it, even if it is Deadpool.

~*~

Peter flips back and pinwheels to the side to avoid the flurry of deadly looking laser beams. Red, violent, and wicked fast, it’s all he can do keep from getting hit while he’s the sole target of the beastly machine squatting in the corner of the lab.

“You said puppy experimentation, not mad scientist bent on world domination!”

“I was starting with the worst offenses!” Deadpool snaps back, stabbing a katana into a bank of computers. They spark and the screens go black but the death lasers don’t stop. “You’re the one that wouldn’t let me finish! Besides, if you hadn’t webbed up poor Marty and had let him do his job, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

“He was going to kill— Ugh! Whatever. For future reference, next time someone builds a Death-Ray-Inator that’s the first thing I wanna know about.”

“Noted.” With a grunt, Deadpool rips free his katana and sheaths it. “Screw this!” He rips his pistol out of his thigh holster and aims it at the death ray.

_“Wait—,”_

He fires several times in rapid succession. The noise is deafening and the bullets ricochet around the room, rebounding off the metal-lined walls with deadly force.

Peter twirls, just barely avoiding a bullet to the abdomen as the heat of a laser skims past his nose.

“Dammit Deadpool! That didn’t work the first time, why would you do it again?!”

“I got frustrated.” He holsters his gun, pouting through his mask.

“No more shooting! I have an idea.” He webs himself up onto the ceiling, shifting to the left just in time to avoid a laser to his back and then scurries toward the far wall.

“What do I do?”

“Don’t move and don’t get hit.”

“Those are very contradictory instructions! What if I need to move to avoid getting hit? I don’t think you thought this through.”

Peter growls under his breath. Yeah he didn’t think this through alright. He should have left Deadpool on that rooftop and cleaned up this mess on his own.

“Just stay where I can find you!”

“Where you can find—,”

Only a few feet remain between him and the wall when his Spidey sense warns him to dodge. He leaps forward, avoids the deadly beam, and latches onto the electrical box hanging on the wall. Another flare from his Spidey sense has him dropping to the floor and throwing his arms over his head.

The laser beam collides with the electrical box.

 _Bang!_ The box explodes in a flare of green light and then the room goes dark. Hesitantly, Peter gets to his feet and breaths a sigh of relief.

“Uh, Webs?”

A laser fires from the Death-Ray-Inator, the red beam illuminating the white of the eyes on Deadpool’s mask before slamming into his chest and knocking him off his feet.

“Shit!” Peter stumbles over an overturned table, scrambling to get back across the pitch-black room where he left Deadpool. “‘Pool?”

“Still alive,” Deadpool wheezes. _“Fuck,_ that smarts. Not much of a death ray though, huh?”

His Spidey sense flares and Peter rolls to avoid a laser. Jagged metal and glass tear into his back as he crashes through the refuse of the computer Deadpool slashed up but he bites back the grunt of pain and keeps moving.

“It must be hooked up to an alternate power source.”

“Ya think? Tell me the truth, Spidey. Are you tryin’ to off me?” Another laser shoots at Deadpool, but this time he manages to flinch out of the way, if only barely. “You know I’m scared to _death_ of the dark. Geddit? Scared to _dea—,”_

“Shut up. Just shut up.” Peter ducks another laser and uses the red glow of its passing to spot Deadpool, flat on his back with a black scorch mark on his chest. He skids to a stop at his side. “Can you stand?”

“I can always get it up for you, baby boy.”

Peter considers leaving him but another laser narrowly sails over his head. As annoying as Deadpool is, he can’t leave him for dead… even if he does have a freakishly good healing factor. He hauls Deadpool’s arm around his shoulders and half drags him behind the overturned table. It won’t stop the lasers but hopefully, it’ll keep him from being targeted. And now that he knows the lasers won’t one-shot kill him he figures it’s time to go all in.

“Stay here.”

He doesn’t wait for Deadpool to agree before leaping up to the ceiling. He crawls as fast as he can towards the Not-Quite-Death-Ray-Inator, dodging beams of red hot energy, sometimes hanging by only his fingertips before swinging his feet back up and resuming his crawl. As soon as he’s close enough, he fires a web and it plasters over the barrel of the ray gun, barely visible to his enhanced eyes in the dark room.

“Yes!”

The gun blasts a laser, shredding through his webbing like wet toilet paper as two more barrels spring out from the sides of the machine and swivel towards him.

“Oh come on!”

He drops, narrowly avoiding the volley of lasers that strike the ceiling where he’d been a moment before. He twists to get his feet under him and springs to the side as the lasers follow. He’s not going to be able to avoid all of them. He’s going to have to—

There’s a flash of silver and a red beam refracts away before it can slam into his shoulder, briefly illuminating Deadpool, a katana in each hand, feet braced apart, his mask set in a determined grimace.

“If that nancy-boy Skywalker can do it, it can’t be that hard, right?” he quips. Then he’s a whirl of silver, twisting and spinning his katanas with expert precision and no small amount of grace as the red beams flash towards them and then away creating a pulsing red light show in the dark room.

“If either of us gets to be the Jedi, it’s me.”

He positions himself over Deadpool’s shoulder, well out of range of his blades, and rapid-fires webbing over the main laser cannon. It continues to blast through it at first but then it finally starts gumming up until, at last, it explodes in a burst of red light. He whoops in excitement and starts the process on one of the side cannons.

“Puh _-lease,”_ Deadpool says. His blades haven’t slowed but he’s starting to sound winded. “A goody-goody like you doesn’t know the first thing about handling a saber.”

Peter snorts but otherwise ignores the innuendo as the second cannon explodes. He starts in on the last one, plastering it with webbing. “I’ve got my Spidey sense. That’s sort of the same as being force sensitive.”

“You’ve got what?”

His Spidey sense flares painfully as the metal casing of the Death-Ray-Inator bulges.

“GET DOWN!” He ducks past Deadpool’s swinging katanas and tackles him around the waist. In the second before they crash to the ground he sends a brief prayer out into the universe that Deadpool will have the presence of mind to not impale them both.

The Death-Ray-Inator explodes as they hit the floor, sending a wave of scorching heat over them. He tucks his head next to Deadpool’s and clenches his teeth as shrapnel peppers his shoulders and back. He can’t hold back his gasp as the pain follows a handful of seconds later, crashing down over him like an anvil.

“Webs, you idiot!” Deadpool wiggles out from under him as he bites back a moan at the fiery pain radiating from his singed and torn flesh. “You don’t have a healing factor!”

“Do so,” Peter bites out, carefully lowering himself to the ground now. His forehead hits the polished concrete with a soft thump and he looses a slow breath.

“Your wimpy baby healing factor’s got nothing on mine and you know it. I should’ve taken that hit!”

He sounds more upset than Peter thought he’d be. He hasn’t been able to get a good read on him. He seems equally as likely to leave you for dead as he is to lend a hand when you’re in a bind. He never considered Deadpool would be the type to take one for the team or to get pissed that someone else did in his place.

“Hold still.”

Gentle fingers peel the remains of his suit from his aching skin but not gentle enough to stop the hiss of pain from escaping between clenched teeth.

“Do we have to do this now?” Peter snaps. “We still have a mad scientist to catch up with in case you forgot.”

“Let me— There’s— Bite your knuckle or something. This is gonna hurt.”

“What are—,”

“Three… two…”

Peter shoves aside his mask and stuffs two knuckles between his teeth, clamping down as something rips free from his back with a sickening squelch and a warm wave of blood that trickles down his sides. He cries out, choking on the pain and bucking away.

“Sorry buddy, it had to come out. Let me get a pressure bandage on this and then I’ll let you kick that lady’s ass, okay? That always makes you feel better. Not beating up women, but putting baddies in their place. We’ll clean up the rest later. I’ll even give you a sponge bath if you let me. That sounds nice, right? Get you all squeaky clean so that measly little healing factor of yours can work its magic.”

“Please shut up,” Peter grunts into the floor.

Deadpool quickly and efficiently bandages his back and then helps him to his feet. Peter makes sure his mask is securely in place and takes a quick inventory of his injuries. Besides the stinging of his fried skin and the dull throbbing pain in his back, he feels okay. He’s low on web fluid and he doesn’t have any more cartridges on him so hopefully that doesn’t become a problem.

“Breathing alright?” Deadpool asks, hovering like Aunt May used to after he had an asthma attack.

He shoves him away. “I’m fine,” he snaps.

Then he catches sight of a jagged strip of metal with blood soaking a solid four inches of its length. Yikes. Okay, maybe he should cut Deadpool some slack if he had _that_ sticking out of him. He’s lucky it didn’t puncture a lung.

“So how the hell do we get out of here?” Deadpool asks, hands on his hips as he stares around the pitch-black metal-lined room.

The mad scientist lady hadn’t wasted a second shutting them in and activating some kind of lockdown mode that had thick metal sheets rolling down over the door and window. Even the lasers hadn’t been enough to more than scuff whatever metal this place is made of.

Except…

He takes his patrol phone out of the hidden pocket at his hip and points the flashlight at the spot of ceiling where three lasers hit simultaneously. It’s scorched black and charred all to hell. He’ll probably be able to get through it and then the ceiling after that and then hopefully into some ductwork. The only vent in the room is nowhere near big enough for a grown man to squeeze into.

Deadpool follows his gaze and his mask twitches. “That’s gonna be hell on your back.”

Peter rolls his shoulders and winces. “Yup.”

“I have grenades?”

Peter shoots him a flat stare that must come across through the mask because Deadpool shrugs and says, “Worth a shot.”

He hands Deadpool his phone for light then crouches low and releases a breath before leaping and sticking his hands to the ceiling. His shoulders scream as he curls his body until his feet find purchase. Clenching his teeth, he hauls back a fist and sends it flying through the weakened metal. Peeling back the metal is hell. Tearing into the ceiling is hell. Ripping through the air duct is hell.

When he’s finally through, he flops onto his stomach and catches his breath as shivers of pain pucker his skin and settle deep into his poor abused muscles.

“Don’t you die up there, bug boy. It’ll take me forever to retrieve the body!”

“Arachnid,” Peter croaks. With a grunt, he gets his palms under him and pushes himself up. There’s shafted light in the direction of the hall the evil scientist lady disappeared into.

“Hey! Don’t leave me here! I’ll send all your friends salacious texts! Don’t think I won’t!”

He ignores Deadpool’s shouting and peeks through the slats of the vent and down into the empty hall below. Good enough for him. He punches out the vent cover and it hits the tiles below with a brain-buzzing clatter.

Let them come. He’s dying to burn off some aggression.

He drops into the hallway.

“I take it back!” Deadpool’s voice echos out of the air vent. “You’re right, it’s arachnid boy. I mean, man! Arachnid _man!”_

There’s an electronic pad next to the door, like a high tech handprint scanner. He doesn’t have the time or patience to mess with it. He changes the setting on his web shooter and rips the pad off the wall before firing a burst of electrified web directly onto the exposed wires. There’s a satisfying crackle of electricity and a familiar burnt plastic smell and then the door slides open with a hiss.

The metal plating on the other side raises back up towards the ceiling to reveal Deadpool, highlighted by the light spilling in around Peter, his grappling hook in hand, reared back to throw up into the exposed air duct.

“It’s Spider-Man,” Peter says.

Deadpool stares at him, mask slack. Then his mask stretches into a grin and he says, “I am so in love with you. Your dramatic timing? Off the charts. Please please _please_ teach me your ways.”

A reluctant smile tugs his lips. “Maybe later. After a nap and enough tacos to knock out a horse and we kick this lady’s ass into next week.” He pauses. “Not in that order.”

“Deal. I’ll even throw in some churros, on the house. Now how do we track her down? You got any cool spidey gadgets? Trackers? Drones? Don’t hold back. I know you like to tinker.”

“I was kinda hoping she’d come to—,”

“What have you done to my death ray?!” A voice shrieks from the hallway.

“—Inator,” Peter says as he turns to face the mad scientist.

Oh joy. She’s decked out in a mech suit, thankfully much less sophisticated than Iron Man’s. It only encases her arms and legs with thick sturdy metal, leaving her torso and face exposed.

“If you’re going to go with the Doofenshmirtz aesthetic then you gotta stick with his naming conven—,”

A katana sails past his head and buries itself in her shoulder. She shrieks in pain and drops to her knees as blood rapidly stains the white of her lab coat.

“‘Pool!” Peter whirls to face him.

“What? I didn’t kill her!” Deadpool stalks past him into the hall and Peter follows hot on his heels.

“You said I’d get to kick her ass!”

“That was before I realized how pissed off I am! I’ll let you have the next one. How’s that sound, baby boy?”

Peter makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat and crosses his arms over his chest. “I _guess._ But you owe me double dinner now.”

“Fine,” Deadpool agrees and then rips the katana from her shoulder, eliciting another scream. He wipes it clean on her coat before sheathing it on his back. “You gonna do the honors? Or do I get to practice my knots?”

With a sigh, Peter uses the last of his webbing to seal the wound on her shoulder and stick her to the floor. As he does so, a stern-faced woman steps out of the room across the hall and freezes in her tracks as she takes in her colleague quietly sobbing on the floor, bemoaning the loss of her weapon of mass destruction, and the two red-clad masked men standing in the middle of the hallway.

“Oh perfect,” Peter says. “Would you mind calling the police?”

“Why—,” she cuts off with a groan as she catches sight of the disaster they left in the room behind them. “Did you do that? That’s the only secured testing room we had! Where am I supposed to test my projects now?”

“Uhh…” Peter rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, she tried to kill us in there sooo…”

She shoots Peter a frosty glare and then sticks her head back in the room she just left. “Becky went dark-side and Spider-Man _destroyed_ our testing room.”

It doesn’t seem fair that the second half of that announcement is the part that gets all the moaning and groaning.

“Deadpool helped! You’re welcome!” Deadpool shouts into the room. “You guys were probably the first ones on her hit list anyway.”

“She was definitely plotting to take over the tri-state area,” Peter adds.

“They don’t look so happy,” Deadpool tells him over his shoulder as he flips the bird to someone inside the room. “Should we apologize? Is that the heroly thing to do?”

Peter scoffs and says to the probably-not-evil scientist, “Just call the cops, okay? I’m sure you can file an insurance claim or whatever. C’mon ‘Pool. You promised me tacos.”

“That I did.” They fall into step. “I suppose I don’t get another Spidey-back ride. You good to walk down the street like that?” He gestures to his torn and bloody suit, matched by the torn and bloody flesh on his back.

He carefully shrugs a shoulder. “Not my first walk of shame. Won’t be my last. I’m out of web fluid anyway.”

Deadpool skips past him to get the door and holds it for him as he says, “We were a badass team in there, weren’t we Spidey? We should do team-ups more often.” He cups his hands around his mouth as he shouts past Peter’s ear, “By the way, your death ray sucks! Didn’t even kill me!”

“…Inator,” Peter mumbles.

Deadpool swivels to shoot him a look. “What’s your problem?”

He sighs. “No one understands me.”

~*~

“I have another idea,” Deadpool says, pausing in his ministrations with the tweezers while Peter sits hunched in front of him with a pile of tacos in his lap. “What are your feelings on strip clubs?”

Peter groans. “I’ll figure it out on my own. No more ideas. Please.”

“I’m just saying, dat ass on a pole?” He whistles and picks another sliver of metal out of his back. “I could feel your abs at work while we were webbing earlier. You’d make bank.”

“Secret identity,” Peter says, gesturing widely with his half-eaten taco. “Does that mean nothing to you? Nobody wants to see _this_ on a pole.” He gestures at his ruined back.

Deadpool nods seriously. “You’re right. Anyone in New York would recognize an ass like yours in an instant. I’ll think of something with a less flattering dress code.”

“No! No more ideas! I’ll figure it out on my own. I’m _fine.”_

Deadpool hums like he doesn’t believe him and it pisses him off. Less because he’s humoring him and more because he’s right. He’s less fine than he’s been in a long time, but he’s not going to stoop to asking _Deadpool_ of all people for help. Besides, if Deadpool gets too involved it could jeopardize his identity.

No, this is something he has to do on his own. If it really gets down to the wire he can always talk to Aunt May.

Ha! He cracks himself up. He’ll get evicted before he brings his problems to Aunt May’s doorstep. She deserves better. Besides, pride is his eternal sin. It pairs quite nicely with his guilt complex and he’d hate to shake up the dream team after so many years of cultivation.

He’ll figure something out. He always does. If he ends up crashing at F.E.A.S.T. for a little while, well… it wouldn’t be the first time.

“So when’s my first lesson, professor?” Deadpool asks out of nowhere as he tosses aside the tweezers and reaches for the antiseptic wipes.

“What?” Peter asks through a mouthful of taco.

“You said you’d teach me your ways!”

Did he? He wracks his brain. “I said _maybe.”_

“Aww c’mon. I’ve been so good… That doesn’t count!”

It throws Peter. Deadpool hasn’t been talking to his voices _—boxes—_ nearly as much as he did that first night but it does happen sometimes. Usually when he’s upset.

“What doesn’t count?” he asks. God, did he kill someone? If he did…

“Nothing! It was nothing! I just… You know that cupcake ATM on the Upper East side?”

“Oh my God, that was you?”

“It was an accident! It gave me a cupcake with no frosting! What the fuck, right? I was well within my rights to beat the shit out of the thing! The audacity! I swear it did it on purpose.”

Peter can’t help it. He bursts out laughing.

“You’re not mad?”

Peter shakes his head, unable to answer as he wheezes. There was a week-long manhunt for the person responsible for busting up the cupcake ATM. The upper crust of the city was united behind a cause for the first time ever and it was just Deadpool being a hot-headed idiot the entire time. So many pissed off entitled rich people all because Deadpool’s cupcake didn’t have frosting on it.

When he finally gets a handle on his giggle-fit, Deadpool is staring at him, a funny expression on his mask.

“Tell you what, ‘Pool. You keep your nose clean and keep feeding me and I’ll let you tag along on patrols a few times a week.”

“Really?”

Peter shrugs. S.H.I.E.L.D. probably won’t give him too hard of a time for it. They’ve had a hell of a time trying to keep eyes on Deadpool. He’s slippery. He just hopes they don’t try to make him do any paperwork. He’s not part of S.H.I.E.L.D. so technically he doesn’t have to listen to them, but it pays to be on their good side when things get really topsy-turvy. And this is New York. Things are bound to get wild sooner rather than later.

“Yeah, why not. Absolutely no killing though. Or maiming. No one should have to spend more than a day or two in the hospital after we’re done with them.”

“I think the explosion rattled his brain,” Deadpool says under his breath.

Peter narrows his eyes at him. “Are you in or not?”

“Yes! I’m so in. I’ll be on such good behavior you’ll be wondering if I’ve been body-snatched.”

Peter snorts. “Alright. I need to make more web fluid but d’you want to meet here tomorrow night? Let’s say eight-ish.”

“I’ll bring chimichangas!”

Peter glances down at the discarded wrappers littering the roof. “How do you feel about Thai?”

“It’s a—,”

_“Don’t—”_

“—date!”

He groans. What did he just agree to?


	2. Bit by Bit

_One Month Since The Start_

Summer sucks.

Why is it that all of the craziest shit happens during the hottest months of the year? You’d never find a giant sludge creature lurking around the sewers and polluting the water supply in January. It’s always the stickiest stinkiest time of year when the nastiest baddies show their ugly faces. Or in this specific case, lack thereof.

“What do you mean you lost it?” Peter snaps.

He grabs Deadpool by the thick black straps crisscrossing his back under his katanas and swings them both down to the sidewalk.

“It squished itself down a shower drain!” Deadpool exclaims, landing with a practiced bend to his knees. “What was I supposed to do? Huck a grenade after it?”

They both ignore the people who stumble away from them, cursing in shock at their sudden appearance, although Peter gives a little wave to an excited toddler who is clutching at his dad’s jeans and pointing with a delighted grin.

“You’re the one that said we need to be more conscientious about property damage,” Deadpool continues.

Peter rolls his eyes and bites back a groan as he senses him working up into a familiar rant.

“Which is _bonkers,_ by the way. Total bullshit! You’re not the one causing the property damage. You’re saving the city from more property damage and, you know, countless deaths? But who cares about lives when—,”

“‘Pool,” he interrupts with a tired sigh as they weave through the mid-day lunch crowd, “grenades inside public buildings are still and will always be a no-no. It doesn’t matter who—,”

“Which is why I didn’t do it! All I’m saying is that people should cut you some slack.”

He spots a manhole cover that’s not in the middle of the road and taps Deadpool’s elbow before leading the way to it, turning side-ways to slip between hungry office workers without bumping anyone. Judging by the shouts and curses behind him, Deadpool isn’t showing the same courtesy. He ignores it. He can pick a lot of fights in a single day, but even he gets burnt out eventually. So he lets this one go.

With a little web and a small yank, the cover is out of the way, revealing a pit of darkness leading to the dank dark dismal underbelly of the city.

Deadpool peers over his shoulder down the hole. “Aw Spidey, you always take me to the nicest places.”

He shoots a web to the street lamp above them. “What can I say, the Spidey Tour of NYC is one of a kind.”

He leaps down the hole, trusting his Spidey sense to warn him he’s approaching the ground so he can slow his descent before he breaks his legs.

“I’m starting to think I should have gone to the Avengers for hero training,” Deadpool calls after him, a steady clang and clomp indicating he opted to take the ladder down. “I bet they don’t have to go down into the sewers.”

Peter snorts but keeps his opinion on the Avengers to himself as he detaches his web. They’ve been especially annoying lately.

_What are you doing hanging around Deadpool? You know he’s a murderer, don’t you? It’s only a matter of time before someone puts a hit on you and he pulls the trigger. He’s crazy. He’s unpredictable. He’s psychotic. He’ll kill you._

Blah blah blah.

Even S.H.I.E.L.D. felt entitled to force their two cents on him and tried to ‘pull him off the assignment’. Good fucking luck taking him off an assignment he was never put on to begin with. He swears they don’t understand what _independent consultant_ means. He’s not one of their agents. He doesn’t work for them. Never has. Never will.

Letting Deadpool shadow him was a vague idea that he sort of agreed to on accident but now he’s committed. Did he want to be responsible for fixing Deadpool? No. Was he looking forward to babysitting? No. Is he going to back down and quit now that everybody and their mother is telling him to? _Hell no._

Besides, Deadpool’s right. The Avengers _don’t_ do the dirty grunt work that it takes to keep New York safe day in and day out. That duty falls to him and a select few others like the Defenders and for now, somehow, Deadpool. The Avengers only show up for the galactic-sized threats and then reap all of the public goodwill. An ooze monster in the sewers polluting the water supply and putting kids in the hospital with lead poisoning isn’t even a blip on their radar.

Hence why they aren’t here. Hence why he is. Hence why he turned down their fancy membership badge when he realized that not only did they expect him to unmask for them but that they were also going to take New York from him. They expected him to be at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s beck and call. To jump when told to jump and to sit around and do fuck all the rest of the time.

Never gonna happen.

“You seem tense,” Deadpool says beside him. “Afraid of the dark? You can hold my hand if you want.”

Something brushes against his hand but he swats it away with an annoyed grunt.

“Let’s try this direction. Keep your ears peeled for any squishy squelchy sounds.”

“Does that mean no talking? It sounds like that might mean no talking.”

“Mums the word.”

“Aww, man. This mission just keeps getting worse and worse.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You _just said—,”_

“‘Pool,” he says sternly.

Deadpool makes a frustrated sound in his throat. “I know,” he mutters under his breath. “He’s impossible. Next thing you know he’s going to ask us to juggle without using our arms.”

He cracks a smile. That would be interesting to watch.

~*~

“This sucks. I’m never going to be able to get this off,” Deadpool whines, pulling at the soaked leather stuck tight against his thigh.

Peter looks away, focusing on draining his boot. “You’re the idiot that thought sacrificing yourself to the sludge monster was a good idea.”

“No! Not a _good_ idea! But it was better than the bupkiss you were coming up with.”

“Was it? Was it _better_ that I had to save your ass instead of thinking up something _helpful?”_

“I enjoyed it,” Deadpool grumbles. “Shut up… I _know_ but that’s not the point. Shut _up!_ I get it!”

Oh boy. It’s going to be one of those days. Maybe he should make an excuse and go—

“You know Spidey, I’m not feelin’ up for chimichangas tonight,” Deadpool says, his typical animation conspicuously absent. “I think I swallowed some of that sludge and it’s not setting well in the ole gut.”

Peter frowns. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Deadpool snorts. “I’ll always be okay.” A bitter edge coats his words. “I’ll see you in two days at the usual spot. You’re not going to starve without Daddypool to feed you, right? Still holding down that shiny new job?”

“Uh, yeah.” Does he want Deadpool to leave? He’ll never admit it but… he sort of likes their rooftop meals. It’s nice having company. Then again he just called himself Daddypool so… “See you Thursday?”

“Yep.” Deadpool does a little salute and takes out his rappelling gun.

Peter watches him go, wrong-footed by the interaction. Everything had been fine up until his ‘boxes’ started talking to him.

Oh well. There’s nothing he can do about it.

He shoots a web and heads home. He desperately needs a shower.

~*~

Later that night, the warm spot in his chest flickers out. It’s the only sign he’s ever had that somewhere out there is a person meant to complement him better than any other. For the past couple years that spot has been on the fritz—randomly vanishing, leaving him cold and lonely. It’s enough to make him wonder… What the heck is up with his soulmate? Maybe it’s a bad connection. Maybe their ink connection doesn’t work right either and that’s why he’s never gotten so much as a ‘hello’.

He researched until his eyes ached and blurred but all he’s ever found is people whose connection blipped out when their soulmate died. It never came back.

Peter’s comes back without fail. Sometimes he thinks, this is it. This is the time it stays gone for good, but within a matter of minutes or occasionally hours, it comes back. Always. He thinks something went wrong when he got matched. Otherwise, why would their connection keep breaking? Why wouldn’t his soulmate write back?

He’s probably not meant to have a soulmate at all. He’d have been better off that way.

He showers and scarfs down some cold pizza and stays up way too late watching trash TV and when that spot of warmth bleeds back into his chest, snug around his heart, he breathes a sigh of relief and finally allows himself to sleep.

~*~

The next day their team-up is all over the news. It must be a slow news day because they don’t even have any good pictures to go with the articles, just a blurry shot of Deadpool swan diving headfirst into the goo monster like an idiot while Spider-Man furiously webs after him, but it seems everyone wants to say their piece. After weeks of speculation about Spider-Man’s new partner in fighting crime, the news sites appear to have concluded that Deadpool is a welcome addition to the city.

Fucking. Wild.

Except the Bugle of course. That would be an outlandish expectation. Jameson spends all day Wednesday broadcasting live, shouting about Spider-Man’s bad influence and their need to crack down on vigilantes in the city, not welcome new ones blah blah blah.

He listens to him rave all day through his earbuds as he cleans all of the floors and surfaces he can reach throughout Empire State University’s campus. Being here and seeing the students and hearing snatches of conversation about history and physics and math… It makes him think maybe it’s time to try for his degree again.

Last time was an unmitigated disaster. Aunt May was in and out of the hospital and the city seemed to be having a perpetual goblin problem. He was run ragged—physically, mentally, and emotionally—with no time to commit to classes and studying. The way it all ended…

MJ in California. Harry in the psych ward. Gwen in the ground.

This time will be different. It _has_ to be. Aunt May has been doing well, he’s drowning in student loan debt as it is, and he’s already lost all of his friends in one way or another so… Why not? What’s he got to lose?

~*~

_Three Months Since The Start_

He shouldn’t have come out tonight. He can hardly walk, let alone fight and it shows. He should’ve handled those thugs easy peasy. Instead, he’s limping home, barely able to keep his eyes open, with a sore ankle, a broken arm, and a recently relocated shoulder on the opposite side, leaving him grounded—not one functioning arm to swing from.

What hurts the most though is his pride.

“You got this. One web in front of the other. Wait no… leg? Foot! That’s the thing, yeah. One foot in front of the—,” he sighs and slumps against a storefront that’s long-since been closed for the night.

He’s so tired. He can rest his eyes for just a—

“Shit Spidey, you’re starting to sound like me. Maybe Iron Dick is right. I’m a bad influence.”

He sighs. It figures that Deadpool would find him like this. The ole Parker Luck has never taken a day off before so it stands to reason that it wouldn’t start now. It’s a testament to how exhausted he is that he doesn’t have a witty retort for Deadpool. It’s all he can do to straighten up and continue his long slow shuffle home. He still has a paper to write.

Deadpool doesn’t seem to mind his non-reply and keeps up a steady stream of chatter as he skips along beside him. He’s only half-listening, tuning in and out like an old radio, and he wouldn’t ever tell anyone, but it helps keep him going. Before he knows it, he leaning against the front of his apartment building while his sluggish, sleep-deprived brain struggles to come up with a way to get Deadpool to leave without giving away where he lives.

“‘Pool?” he says, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. It’s not more than a mumble but Deadpool must be listening for him because he shuts up immediately.

“You good, Spidey?”

“Yeah,” he lies. “Thanks.” _For distracting me. For making sure I get home. For caring._ It’s too many words for him to make happen right now but he hopes Deadpool gets it.

“Is it a head injury? You shouldn’t be alone if it’s a head injury.”

He sounds more serious than Peter’s ever heard him. He snorts. “Nah, just chronic stupidity. Haven’t slept in…” He can’t remember. What day is it anyway? How long have they been walking?

“Yoo-hoo! Earth to Spider-Man. Come back to me, Webs.”

“Cut it out,” Peter says, half-heartedly swatting at the hand Deadpool is waving in his face. The movement wrenches his shoulder and he bites back a groan. “I’ve got it from here, ‘kay?”

“You’re gonna get that arm taken care of before you pass out, right?”

“What?” Oh yeah. His broken arm. He should probably set it so it heals right but that seems like way too much work from down here on the sidewalk, five stories below his bed.

“Here.” Deadpool is suddenly right in front of him with a spool of ACE bandages in his hands. Where did he get that? Somehow medical supplies aren’t what Peter envisioned him carrying in his pouches. He imagined it’d be bullets or snacks or loose glitter or an improbable number of grappling hooks. Not something that Deadpool himself doesn’t ever need.

Deadpool has his arm wrapped and is halfway through securing it in a sling around his neck before he even thinks to question his complete trust in letting him do so. It’s not the first time he’s let Deadpool patch him up but usually, he has a convoluted internal debate about whether or not to let him before eventually giving in. This time he didn’t even think about it.

This is Deadpool. A mercenary, but not just any mercenary. He’s the mercenary that makes Black Widow’s lips pinch into a frown. Which doesn’t sound like much but for her, that’s basically a scream that this guy is bad news.

And yet…

“There you go, buddy,” Deadpool says, tying off the bandage and gently situating his arm across his chest. “Drink some water. You’ve got food, right? Can’t expect a healing factor to run on nothin’, you know?”

He thinks hard and is pretty sure he’s got a pack of ramen left. It’s beef-flavored which he’s been off since he bought that megapack and ate it every meal for an entire month. Or if he’s not remembering right there’s always that poptart that’s been in the bottom of his backpack for… a long time. It’s been ground into a fine powder by now but they don’t call it an emergency snack for nothin’.

“Yeah, I’ve got stuff. I umm, thanks again. I owe you one.”

“Ooooo exciting!” Deadpool claps his hands as he bounces on his toes. “What should we have Spidey do for us?”

Aw fuck. What’d he go and say that for? A list of stipulations are on the tip of his tongue—no killing, nothing illegal, nothing that will damage his reputation worse than it already is—but before he can get into it, Deadpool is talking again.

“No, no he wouldn’t like that. No, nothing embarrassing! We want him to like us, you idiots! Guh! Just shut up, both of you. You’re not helping.”

“Nothing bad, okay?”

“Of course not!” Deadpool exclaims, sounding scandalized. “I wouldn’t do you dirty like that, baby boy!” He scoffs. “Well, yeah we’d do him dirty like _that_ but let’s be real, he’ll never go for this ugly mug.”

“You’re not ugly,” Peter says. Sure, he’s never seen Deadpool’s face and he’s heard he’s got some pretty extensive scarring, but with a body like that? No, there’s no way he could ever call Deadpool ugly.

Deadpool laughs, uproarious and jagged. He wipes an imaginary tear from under the eye of his mask and flicks it away with a giggle. “That’s cute, Webs. Oh man.” He giggles some more and Peter tries not to be offended but there’s not much he can say without confessing that he thinks Deadpool is hot which would be a very bad idea. He’s already a terrible flirt. He doesn’t need any encouragement.

“I’m gonna go now. Don’t watch, ‘kay?”

“Of course I won’t! Stalking you to find out where you live goes against the Super-Bro-Code, just like peeking under your mask when you’re unconscious. Or that’s what White says anyway.”

“Uh yeah. Those are both no-nos. Good call, White.”

Deadpool tips his head to the side and stares at him. It’s unnerving to have his normally expressive mask go blank with the white eyes fixed on his face. Or he assumes he’s staring at his face. It’s hard to tell with masks.

“What?” Peter asks. “Did I mispronounce it? Wh _-ite._ Whiiite? Whhhite. Cool whhip?” He snickers.

“Oh my God,” Deadpool murmurs. “I don’t know.”

It takes Peter a moment to realize he’s not talking to him. “White _is_ one of your voices right? Boxes, whatever. I thought you’ve mentioned that one before.”

“Yea— Don’t try to deny it! We can both tell you’re— _Ha!_ Welcome to the club, asshole. It’s about damn time.”

“Hey.” Peter snaps in front of Deadpool’s nose and it’s about as effective as you’d expect with gloves on. “Shut up for a second, guys. I was talking to him first.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I mean, I think I was. Am I the interloper? Am I being rude?”

Deadpool throws his head back and laughs. This time it sounds genuine and he can’t help the smile that curls his lips in response.

“Oh man, yeah I love sleep-deprived Spidey too.”

“You’ve met him before. Me. Whatever.” It’s hardly the first time he’s been out and about as Spider-Man without the doctor-recommended hours of sleep.

“Go home, Spidey,” Deadpool tells him. “I’ll noodle on your favor while you get some sleep. Oooo ice skating _would_ be fun! I get to wear the skirt!”

“Skirt?” Peter shakes his head. It’s hard to keep up with Deadpool’s tangents when he’s fully rested. It’s impossible when he’s this tired. “You have to leave first, remember?”

“Right, right. Secret identity. Secret spidey hole. Spider cave. Spider… nest? Eww. No no no. Shut up about egg sacks! There’s no egg sacks, right Spidey?”

“Uh, no,” he says.

Deadpool lets out a relieved sigh and starts walking backward. “Can’t wait for our date Spidey-Babe!” He blows him a kiss and then spins on his heel and skips down the sidewalk. “I _know_ we love to watch him leave but we can’t this time. We promised. Next time we’ll watch him as long as we can, okay?”

He’s got no reason to believe that he won’t find a way to peek at him as he slips into the alley beside his building and starts the slow, miserable climb up the fire escape, but for some reason, he finds that he trusts him. Just this once.

~*~

“A monster movie marathon?” he echoes. “Like… at your house?”

“Apartment,” Deadpool corrects. “We’ve passed it before. Remember that guy with the sound cannon? Totally knocked all my stuff off the walls. But we don’t have to do that! I have back-up ideas! Like, uh Coney Island which I know is kinda tacky for locals but I’ve never been. Or umm, that one museum? The momma? Whatever it is. You seem like a museum kind of guy. Or there’s always—,”

“‘Pool, these aren’t favors. They’re…” _Dates,_ his mind supplies. “…activities.”

“But… that’s what I want. You said you owe me.”

And boy oh boy does he regret that more with every second that passes. “I’m not going on a date with you. Let me know when you’ve got a real favor to ask.”

“Wait!” Deadpool cries before he can web off. “What about… So there’s this thing.”

Peter crosses his arms. “What thing?”

“It’s uh… So there’s this mom and pop restaurant. Shady, _shady_ folks runnin’ the joint. Packages go in but don’t go back out. It’s defo a front, I just don’t know what for. Wanna do a stakeout with me?”

Peter surveys him silently for several seconds, almost enjoying watching him squirm. “Fine,” he says. “But this is it. No matter how tonight goes, I don’t owe you anymore.”

“Deal.”

~*~

“Live it up,” Peter says darkly under his breath, low enough that the nice Hispanic woman can’t hear him as she returns to the kitchen with their orders. “I’m never doing you another favor ever again.”

“Aw c’mon Webs,” Deadpool pouts, scooping up an unreasonable amount of salsa onto his tortilla chip. “Is hanging out with me so bad?” He shoves the entire chip in his mouth and salsa runs down his scarred chin.

“I’d rather fight the sludge monster again.”

“Oh, you wound me!”

“I can’t believe after I explicitly—,”

“Ooo _explicit.”_

“—told you I wouldn’t go on a date with you—,”

“It’s not a date!” Deadpool exclaims too loud. “It’s a friendly outing between friends. Don’t you ever go out with your friends, Spidey?”

His heart squeezes in his chest. What _friends?_

MJ in California. Harry in the psych ward. Gwen in the ground.

“We’re not friends,” he spits. “We’ll never be friends. We’re… we’re co-workers if anything.”

Deadpool sits back in the booth, mask blank.

A frisson of fear tickles his spine. What did he just do? This is _Deadpool._ Sure he acts like an annoying clingy puppy most of the time but he’s still a deadly mercenary. He’s dangerous. He’s tolerated Peter’s lack of social grace thus far but… how long will that last? How long until he pushes him over the edge? If he pushes him too far will he lash out at him or New York?

“Go then,” Deadpool finally says, voice deadly soft. “If you don’t want to be here, then go.”

Peter starts to stand but then hesitates. “‘Pool—,”

“Don’t start accounting for my feelings now,” he says, voice hard. “I don’t _need_ this. I can stroll into Sister Margarete’s and pick up a job anytime I want.”

“Do it then,” Peter snaps. “Go be the merc you want to see in the world. Do whatever you want! I won’t stop you.” He leans across the table and says lowly, “But if you do and I ever see you again I’ll take you down or die trying.”

They stare each other down over the table, shoulders tense, hands in fists, unsure if it’ll come down to a fight. He’s hyper-aware of every twitch, every breath Deadpool takes. If it does come to a fight, he’s not backing down.

The clatter of a tray landing between them startles them out of their staredown.

“Buen provecho!” the waitress says with a smile that accentuates the crow’s feet framing her eyes. Either she doesn’t notice the tension between them or is choosing to ignore it.

“Gracias, señora,” Deadpool says, flipping from fury to charm in a heartbeat. Somehow his mask is already covering his chin again even though Peter didn’t see him pull it back down.

Peter can’t pivot that fast.

“Gracias,” he mutters as she hurries to seat the boisterous family crowding in through the door.

He eyes the loaded tray in front of him. It smells amazing. Deadpool ordered his usual chimichangas as well as several tacos and burritos. A meal for ten to share between the two of them.

He’s not sure if he should walk out or not. At this point, it feels rude to the staff to do so, but is he okay with encouraging Deadpool’s lies and manipulation? Not to mention his threat to go back to merc work. He should walk out on principle. Those tactics don’t work on him and he’s not about to set a precedent pretending they do.

He puts his palms on the table and moves to stand.

“I won’t,” Deadpool says, freezing him in place. “Can we… I won’t go back to taking hit jobs. Not lethal ones anyway. I closed that door. I only said it because you pissed me off.”

Peter purses his lips and considers him through narrowed eyes before slowly sitting back down. “Why should I stay?”

“Because the food is _amazing,”_ Deadpool says and it’s like a dam bursts. As far as Peter is concerned, they’re still on thin ice, but Deadpool goes off acting like he always does. “I’m not a big fan of chimichangas but these are pretty good and the tacos are to _die_ for. If I never—,”

“Wait,” Peter says.

Deadpool stills, his mask in hand tugged up to just below his nose. Since when is he comfortable having his mask up around him? Since when does Peter not need to pretend to be cloud gazing or people watching so Deadpool can eat without being self-conscious?

“Wait,” he repeats. “What the hell do you mean, you don’t like chimichangas? You _always_ order chimichangas.”

Deadpool shrugs and a wide grin stretches his lips. “I just like saying it. Chimichangas! Chimichangas! Chimi-chimichangas! See? It’s a fun word.”

Peter stares at him. At his mouth. At the smile on his lips.

“You’re an idiot.” He spins the tray so the chimichangas are on his side of the table and the tacos and burritos are in front of Deadpool. “You like tacos though, right?”

“I _love_ tacos. Tacos are my most favorite food ever.”

Peter rolls his eyes, eternally depressed that the action is lost on Deadpool, and picks up a chimichanga. “Lucky for you I’m not picky.”

~*~

_Six Months Since the Start_

“No dying allowed. I’m trying really fucking hard to impress Spider-Man and he doesn’t like it when people die so... Pull yourselves together or whatever.”

“‘Pool, leave the criminals alone,” Peter says tiredly, blasting a spray of webbing over the bleeding wound on the side of an unconscious man in a ski mask before webbing him to the ground.

“I’m just making sure they understand the rules, Spidey! If they don’t know the rules they might break them and I’ll be the one who gets in trouble for it!”

He rolls his eyes and puts in a call to police before leading the way to a secluded rooftop where the cops won’t bother them as they regroup.

Deadpool catches up a minute later, panting as he hauls himself up to sit beside him on the water tower.

“What were we talking about before we were so rudely interrupted?” Deadpool asks. “Oh, that’s right. We were about to initiate him into the Dead Girlfriend Club!”

Peter stares at Deadpool’s raised palm. “I don’t want to high-five for that. And she wasn’t my girlfriend.”

“Ah, still recent then?”

Is six years considered recent? Almost seven now… Should he be over it? He can’t imagine ever letting it go. She’s _dead_ and it’s his fault. Forgetting would be doing her a disservice.

“I’m gonna head home,” he says.

“Wait, Spidey!”

He ignores him and leaps from the water tower.

He should have kept his mouth shut. What is it about Deadpool that has him spilling his guts? He’s _not_ a good listener (he always prefers to be the one chattering nonstop) but maybe that’s why he keeps telling him things he doesn’t talk to anyone else about—he gets to get things off his chest but there’s always a chance that Deadpool’s not listening so he doesn’t have to worry too much about him knowing things he doesn’t want anyone to know. Things about Gwen and Uncle Ben and Aunt May. He doesn’t name names of course and keeps the details vague but… it’s more than he’s ever shared with anyone else.

And of course, _of course,_ Deadpool doesn’t reciprocate. He sits there on the rooftop, bleeding heart in hand, and Deadpool follows it up by chattering on about Ring Pops, Star Wars, and his skeeball high score while they put the hurt on bad guys. Nothing personal. Nothing that _matters._

It’s stupid that he’s upset by that. They aren’t _friends._ He still stands by that. They’re too different. And this is just another reason why that’ll never change.

~*~

He kicks the door shut behind him, struggling to keep Deadpool’s dead weight balanced across his shoulders. His fingers are frozen and he can’t feel his toes but he hardly notices. He feels sick. Every time he blinks he sees the brain matter explode out the back of his head.

_It’ll be fine. He has an amazing regenerative ability. He’ll be fine._

He dumps the body on the couch and quickly scrambles down the hall for the bathroom. He finds a crusty blood-stained towel on the floor and rushes back to the living and puts it under his head, trying not to gag at the gore or the sticky squelch of his soft broken skull in his hand. It reminds him of—

_Don’t think about it._

He adjusts Deadpool on the couch so his leg isn’t dangling to the floor, but he’s too tall and his feet hang over the end of the armrest anyway.

What else? What can he do?

He looks around the unfamiliar apartment. It’s a mess. There are boxes everywhere, full of ammunition and other odds and ends, and trash litters every surface. The couch is stained and so is the carpet, the walls, and what little he can see of the kitchen table under the small armory disassembled atop it.

It doesn’t matter.

 _Think,_ he tells himself. What will Deadpool want to wake up to? He _is_ going to wake up. He is and that’s that. He’s not… He’s not Gwen. He said he can’t die but this is the first time Peter’s seen that statement put to practice. So far he’s not impressed. It’s been almost an hour and he’s still looking very corpse-like.

_Golden Girls!_

He never shuts up about them. He’s got to have a DVD or something around here.

He snoops unapologetically (that’s what he gets for dying on him and leaving him to figure this out on his own!) and finally unearths a battered box-set containing all seven seasons. He grabs a disk at random and feeds it into the DVD player. Once it begins to play, he looks around the room again.

What else?

He still looks uncomfortable. As uncomfortable as a corpse can look at any rate. He reaches for his boots. That’ll probably be okay, right? He won’t want him to touch his mask or reveal any skin, but taking off his heavy bloody boots should be fine, right? Right.

He puts the boots next to the front door and then hurries down the hall again to scour the bedroom for the Spider-Man slippers he bragged about buying off of Etsy almost two months ago. He finds them half under the bed like they were kicked off just this morning. He also grabs the Hello Kitty blanket, remembering it from Deadpool’s highly-specific list of soft things that feel good even on bad skin days when he can’t stand to put on his suit.

He trucks it all back to the living room and jams the slippers over his socks even though they’re crusted with sweat. Then, he meticulously tucks the blanket around him, making sure to fold his arms neatly over his chest even though he won’t be able to feel the softness through his gloves. He doesn’t dare take them off. He knows Deadpool doesn’t like showing skin around people and he doesn’t want to upset him by taking that choice from him.

What else?

Surely coming back from the dead takes a lot out of a body. He’s probably going to be starving if— No, _when_ he wakes up. He’s always going on about how good his pancakes are. Peter’s not much of a cook but he can give it a—

He has half of the cupboards open in his search for ingredients before he stops to think about what he’s doing. This is his first time in Deadpool’s apartment, yet he knew exactly how to get here thanks to Deadpool pointing it out every time they pass by. He knew to turn on Golden Girls and how many times has he listened to Deadpool rave about his favorite soft things and how good they feel against his hypersensitive skin? He even didn’t have to think too hard about it. Any of it. He just did it.

Maybe Deadpool hasn’t been holding back after all. Maybe instead of people, he holds dear these things, these little things that he cherishes that he’s shared with Peter in the form of inane chatter. Maybe this strange almost-friendship isn’t as one-sided as he thought.

It doesn’t make him feel much better considering Deadpool is still dead. Is he really going to come back from this? There’s a _bullet hole_ in his forehead. The back of his skull isn’t _there_ anymore. It’s too much. It should be too much.

He goes through the motions of making pancakes. They’re not great and he burns a few but they should be edible and they smell better than the musty metallic smell of the apartment prior to his attempt at cooking.

He heaps them up on a plate and sticks them in the microwave to keep warm and then stands in the divide between the kitchen and living room at a loss for what to do next.

He can’t sit here watching Golden Girls and wondering if Deadpool overestimated his abilities. Is he doing all of this for a corpse? Is he going to come back like he said he would? Is this… He can’t lose anyone else. Why do people always die around him? First Uncle Ben. Then Gwen and everything that happened after. And now—

A rattling breath cuts through the silence of the apartment. He nearly trips over his feet in his haste to check on him as hot relief curls around his sternum.

“‘Pool?” He doesn’t know why he’s whispering except that he’s getting some strong Walking Dead vibes. Is it really… him? He’s not going to come back as a mindless flesh-hungry zombie, right?

Deadpool doesn’t respond, merely drawing labored breath after labored breath.

He bites his lip and then carefully rolls Deadpool’s mask up over his nose. He’ll probably forgive him for this right? He doesn’t want him to suffocate so soon after coming back from the dead.

His breath _reeks_ like coagulated blood and morning breath and rotting meat. He considers rolling the mask back down so he doesn’t have to smell it but doesn’t.

Instead, he sinks to the tattered dirty carpet and rests his head against Deadpool’s bicep and loosely takes his wrist, resting his fingers over the pulse that wasn’t there a minute ago. His eyes are on the TV but he’s not taking any of it in, his focus is solely on the sound of Deadpool’s breathing and the steady pulsing under his fingers.

He’s alive. He came back. He’s alive.

~*~

He wakes up when something hard knocks against his skull.

“Holy _shit!_ You scared the _fuck_ out of me!”

“Ow,” Peter grumbles, rubbing the sore spot on the side of his head and straightening his aching back. Did he fall asleep sitting up? Ugh. He’s getting old. “What’d you hit me for?”

“It was self-defense!”

“Against a sleeping person?”

“I… why were you sleeping down there?”

Peter blinks up at him and the past day comes rushing back. The gang hit they interrupted, the ensuing fight, Deadpool’s brains exploding out the back of his skull under the force of a lucky bullet, the cold terror that flooded his chest and carried him through the rest of the fight on his own, the long freezing trek across the city with Deadpool’s body strapped to his back like a massive backpack as snow fell around him making surfaces slick and treacherous, arriving at Deadpool’s apartment, getting him comfortable, his first breath, falling asleep.

“You were dead,” he accuses. “You weren’t breathing. No heartbeat. Dead.”

Deadpool is silent, frowning down at him, his mask still rolled up to the bridge of his nose. “Head injury?” he finally asks. “I don’t remember a thing past breakfast so—,”

“He blew your brains out,” Peter says harshly. “I wasn’t fast enough. I saw it coming but I—,”

“Webs, you’re not responsible for me. If I take a bullet, that’s on me.”

Peter shakes his head and gets to his feet. He can’t look at him while he’s covered in his own blood. Golden Girls is still playing but the sun is starting to rise, reflecting harshly off the blanket of fresh snow coating the low rooftop next door. What time was it last night when he finally got here? How long has he been asleep? Shit, he’s got class.

“Baby boy, look at me.”

Reluctantly, he does. Deadpool’s mask stares back at him. There’s a bullet hole between his eyes.

“I’m okay,” Deadpool says. “Nothin’ keeps me down for long. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Doesn’t he though? That’s his thing. He worries about the people he cares—

Aw beans.

He’s not supposed to care about _Deadpool!_ They were never meant to be friends. They weren’t even supposed to work together this long. This was supposed to be a temporary stop-gap measure to keep an eye on him and show him that killing isn’t the answer. When did it become more than that?

“I gotta go,” he says abruptly. “I have cla— a commitment.”

_Stupid stupid stupid! Just tell him everything why don’t you! Might as well take off your mask and introduce yourself, idiot!_

He needs to step back. Get some perspective.

“Wait!” Deadpool shouts, stumbling off the couch on shaky legs, but he’s already out the window and zipping through the crisp winter air.

Several blocks later he realizes he forgot to tell him about the pancakes.

~*~

He doesn’t need a medical diagnosis to suss out that he has a concussion. The only question remains, which robots are real and which ones are a result of double-vision.

“Hey, quick question, are there two robo-freaks or one?”

“There’s _four!”_ the kid behind him exclaims, alarmed.

“Ah, my mistake. Oh well.” He adjusts the setting on his web-shooter and hopes his latest prototype doesn’t make him look like an idiot…or explode and trap him and the kid he’s supposed to be protecting in webbing leaving them sitting ducks for the robot invasion tearing up the streets.

Here goes nothing.

He fires the web and on impact, it explodes across all eight _—no four, the kid said four—_ robos and webs them securely against the wall.

“Another sticky end for— Eh, never mind.” Jokes are hard when your brain is doing its damnedest to leak out your ears.

He double-checks to make sure that all of the immediate threats are taken care of and then turns to face the kid. He’s no longer hiding behind the dumpster and is instead staring at the webbed up robots with something like awe in his face.

“Run that way and get somewhere safe, okay?” Peter tells him, pointing down the street away from the epicenter of the fight. “We’ll get these chuckleheads cleaned right up.”

 _‘We’_ being the Avengers and anyone else stupid enough to stick their nose into one of their insane battles, such as himself.

“Thanks, Spider-Man,” the kid says, breathless.

A thrill of pride swells in his chest. It’s moments like these that make it all worth it. He waits for the kid to safely round the corner out of sight before he heads back into the fray.

Good thing too. He lifts his foot and the world tilts. The next thing he knows, he’s face-down on the asphalt, a rock digging sharply into his cheekbone.

“Ow. Glad no one saw that.”

“Guess again, Spider-Kid.”

He groans and rolls onto his back. Why _Hawkeye_ of all people? He’s going to blab to literally everyone. He glares at the archer where he’s leaning over the edge of the roof high above him.

“Go home, kid. We’ve got this handled.”

Peter snorts as he vanishes from sight. If he wanted him to recklessly continue to fight, those are exactly the words to use to convince him.

He forces himself to his feet, gripping the dumpster to keep from tipping over again.

 _Kid._ He’s not a kid. He’s an _adult,_ dammit. He suffers through all of the awful adult things like a full-time job and massive student loans and paying taxes and laundry (fuckin’ never-ending laundry) so he should at least get some goddamn respect. _Kid._

He fires a web and pulls himself into the air, relying less on sight and more on his Spidey sense to tell him where to aim his webs to keep him from careening wildly into a building. His reflexes are slower than usual but he’s making it work as he rapidly closes in on the epicenter of the fight.

He’s not sure where the robots came from this time. They don’t look like Hammer tech or Doom bots but they don’t seem alien either. It doesn’t matter. He’s not going to stick around long enough once this is over to ask questions.

He sticks to a stop on a singed awning and the world spins around him. Before he can get his bearings, his Spidey sense flares and he lurches to avoid a laser. _Why’s it always lasers?_

He has attracted the notice of a handful of robots but with his Spidey sense telling him where to aim, his webs hit their targets, and soon he has an entire bouquet of robots that he whips around through the air before releasing his webs and flinging them into a building. They shatter into scrap metal, beeping dejectedly before succumbing to the damage and falling silent.

 _Kid._ Could a kid do _that?_

“Spidey! I knew I’d find you here!”

He groans. Of-fucking-course Deadpool is here. He successfully avoided him for weeks only to get cornered while concussed fighting one of the Avenger’s stupid city-wide battles. He’s not even supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be in class but he couldn’t ignore the robot army marching through campus. So here he is.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Deadpool demands.

Peter can see him now. He’s at the mouth of an alley ripping and whirling through robots with his katanas.

“I don’t remember that day but if I pissed you off I’ll make it up to you, I swear!”

He’d laugh if he was confident opening his mouth wouldn’t end with him ralphing in his mask. He’s gotta get out of here. He’s in no state to talk to Deadpool, nor does he want to. He’s better off on his own. He can’t do it anymore. He’s got Aunt May and that’s enough. He’s been gutted too many times by friendship to open himself up to it again.

MJ in California. Harry in the psych ward. Gwen in the ground.

A robot zips through the air, coming up on Deadpool’s back, but with a well-placed web and a timely fling, it joins its brethren in the scrap metal heap.

He can’t _do_ it anymore. So what if Deadpool can’t stay dead? There are worse things. And those things stalk Peter like a creepy sparkly centuries-old vampire stalks a teenage girl. He’s tired. He’s tired of endings. So why not nip this thing before it begins? It’s better this way. _He’s_ better this way. Alone.

Oof. His concussion must be worse than he thought. He’s spiraled past glum straight to morose.

“Spidey?” Deadpool probes.

“Don’t you have a concussion?” Hawkeye is suddenly on the roof above him, firing arrows into the bottleneck Deadpool created at the end of the alley and taking out any robots that try to fly up and over him. “Why are you still here?”

“He has a concussion?”

“I just watched him biff it trying to walk. No idea how he’s hitting anything.”

“Webs, come on. You should—,”

“I’m _fine.”_

To prove it, he leaps down and joins the fray, cutting off the only route of escape the robots might have taken, effectively trapping them between him and Deadpool. And he only stumbles a little.

Hawkeye curses but Peter ignores him and his arrows and switches the setting on his web-shooters before firing electrified webbing at the backs of the robots. Two of them go down immediately, getting the attention of another seven.

Good. He feels like punching something and with robots, he doesn’t have to hold back.

In hindsight, hand-to-hand combat with deadly robots while concussed isn’t one of his smarter ideas. He’s not sure what happens. One moment he’s kicking ass, disoriented but making it work, and the next his Spidey sense goes nuts, giving him so much information that he doesn’t know which bit of danger to address first.

In a blink, he’s on his back, struggling for air, chest burning. Like predators scenting a wounded animal, the mob of robots smashes into each other in their frenzy to get him. Shit. He fires his web-shooter, taking down a handful with electrified webbing but he knows he can’t get them all. Not before they get him.

He points his other web-shooter up at the ledge above but when he hits the trigger all he gets is a tiny splattering of webbing and a hiss of air. Of course. Of _fucking course._ He’s got more cartridges in his hidden utility belt but he’s out of time.

The robots descend upon him in pieces.

Wait, what?

He blinks furiously to clear his vision and there’s Deadpool standing over him, a whirling vortex of red and silver as he slashes the robots to bits.

He should help.

He gets onto one elbow and pain sears through his chest, black spots fuzzing the corners of his vision.

Oh shit. How bad is he hurt? His chest is in agony. He pats it and hisses as his glove comes away bloody. Fuck. Did he get shot with one of those lasers? How much blood has he lost? He flops his head to the side and finds that he’s lying in a puddle of red. Not good.

He fumbles with his utility belt, hunting with his fingers for a new webfluid cartridge. He needs to get home and sleep this off. Or find a cozy dumpster. Home is kind of far.

He pops the spent cartridge out of his shooter and tucks the empty capsule into this belt but before he can insert the new one, deft red-gloved fingers pluck it out of his grip.

“Hey!” His voice sounds funny. Muffled and strange.

“No,” Deadpool says, glowering down at him. “You’re not going to slink off to go die alone in an alley.”

“‘M not gonna die. I’ve had worse.”

He thinks. It’s not like he’s been able to take inventory or anything. But he’s probably fine.

Deadpool snorts and it’s only then that Peter realizes he’s furious. He’s only seen him this mad a few times, all previous instances involving some of their more fucked up encounters with the dregs of society—human experimentation, traffickers, and the like. He’s not used to it being directed at him.

“What the fuck’s your problem?” Deadpool demands. “Are you _trying_ to get killed? You’ve been avoiding me for weeks and when I finally catch up with you, you throw yourself at death like a dog in heat! If you have a death wish I can hook you up, baby boy. Maybe you don’t remember but I’m _really good_ at killing and it’ll be a lot quicker and less painful than—,”

Blah blah blah.

There’s only one way he can think of to get out of this conversation. He stops fighting it and the black threatening the edges of his vision takes over, taking him far away from the pain wracking his body and Deadpool’s nagging voice.

~*~

“That is so fucking like you to pass out to avoid an argument.”

He groans and wills the black to take him away again. It doesn’t. Pity.

How long was he out? Not long enough if Deadpool’s still here. He shifts and the blanket tucked under his chin slips.

Wait. Blanket? What happened to the alley? Where is he?!

His eyes fly open and he sits up all at once. Pain rips through him, stealing his breath and fuzzing his vision.

A large hand on his shoulder shoves him back down against the soft whatever-it-is under him as he struggles to catch his breath.

Ow.

“Stay down, you idiot,” Deadpool says. “You’re fine. We’re at my place and you’re not going anywhere until I get some answers.”

He grabs his face, only breathing easy when he feels his mask under his fingertips. Wait. Where are his gloves?

“I didn’t take off your mask,” Deadpool snaps. “Didn’t even peek.” He sounds even angrier for having to say so.

Peter checks under the blanket and finds his bare chest wrapped securely with clean bandages and below them the bottom half of his suit still in place. He flops back with a silent sigh of relief.

“Your virtue is still intact,” Deadpool says sardonically. “You’re lucky I got you away from Barton. Took forever to shake him. Who knows what kinds of tests and experiments Stark would have done on you while you were too unconscious to decline.”

That’s… not entirely inaccurate. Stark isn’t a monster. He wouldn’t _experiment_ on him. But he has been known to do what he thinks is best, fuck what anyone else thinks, and he’s been pushing Peter to let him analyze his DNA for years. Find out exactly what makes Spider-Man, _Spider-Man._ To test how stable his mutation is and how it’ll hold up to the test of time.

Given the chance, he wouldn’t be shocked if he would collect a sample in secret and run his tests without Peter’s knowledge or consent. He’d do it with Peter’s best interests at heart, but still without his permission.

He shivers. He can’t let that happen. It’s not that he doesn’t trust him—to an extent—but the formula used to create him, to create _Spider-Man,_ can’t be rediscovered and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. Even if that means gambling his life. It’s not uncommon for mutations to destabilize over time, but his has held together this long. He’s willing to milk it as long as he can.

“I can’t tell him that! Shut up! _Shut up!”_

Oh, it’s one of those days.

“I can’t _think_ with you two—,”

“White, Yellow,” he croaks, “shut the fuck up.”

Deadpool stares at him, mask unmoving, his body still. Silent.

“What?” Peter demands. “You wanted them to shut up, didn’t you?”

“Yeah but… they actually listened. They never listen.”

“Oh. So they’re quiet now?”

“Yeah.”

“Umm, good. I’ll get out of your hair then and let you enjoy the peace. I’ll need the rest of my suit but I should be fine to—,”

“Like fuck I’m letting you out of here until we’ve hashed out whatever I did that day.”

“Let me?” Peter spits. “I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

He gets halfway to sitting before Deadpool shoves him down again. Head spinning and chest heaving as he breathes through the pain, he lets him.

“You’re a special kind of stupid aren’t you? Why can’t you just let people help you, huh? I’m not even trying to get anything out of it. I just want to help and to fix whatever I did wrong!”

“I’m fine,” he gasps. “Had worse.”

“You’re so full of shit. You’re staying here until you can stand without panting.”

“You gonna make me?”

Deadpool snorts. “If you want to make a break for it, fine, but you won’t find the rest of your suit and I’m not giving it back until you’re better. So there.” He sticks his tongue out against the inside of his mask.

Peter grinds his teeth. For a moment, it seems worth it to push back, make a break for it. To prove to Deadpool that he doesn’t need him. He doesn’t need anyone.

But goddammit, he’s tired. And running from Deadpool now will only mean staving off this conversation for another day. The stubborn idiot just won’t give up and let him cut ties.

Also, he really needs the rest of his suit, and searching for it while fighting off Deadpool sounds exhausting and painful.

“What d’you want from me ‘Pool?” he asks on a sigh, relaxing against what he now recognizes as Deadpool’s awful stained couch. It smells like a crime scene.

“I want to know what I did. Why you left like that and why you won’t let me patrol with you anymore.” He crosses his arms over his broad chest and glowers down at him.

“I…” How the hell is he supposed to explain? It’s not you, it’s me? What is this, some kind of fucked up rom-com? “It doesn’t matter.”

“Fucking— _Apparently it does!_ Just tell me what I did so I can make it better!”

“You _died!”_ The words rip out of him with enough force to make his chest ache. Quieter, he continues, “And it was my fault. People get hurt around me. They _always_ get hurt. It’s better if—”

“So fucking what?” Deadpool interrupts. “I get hurt all the time whether you’re around or not. And I can’t really die. You know this.”

He flinches. That’s not true. He _did_ die. He was _dead._ No pulse. No breathing. Dead. For at least an hour, he was dead.

“I can’t _stay_ dead,” Deadpool corrects after a moment. Then he leans down so his masked face is directly over Peter’s and says with wonder in his voice, “It bothers you that I died. Like, it really bothers you.”

“Fuck off.” He puts his palm over Deadpool’s face and shoves, ignoring the searing in his chest at the motion.

“It does!” Deadpool crows, doing a little dance that ends with a happy twirl. “You care about me!” he accuses, pointing a finger in his face. “You loooooveee me!”

“I don’t love you.” He slaps his hand away. “I hardly even know you!”

“What are you talking about, baby boy? You know everything about me!”

“No,” Peter argues. “Your favorite TV show doesn’t count as _knowing you._ Telling me about your Etsy finds isn’t the same as telling me… telling me…. I don’t know! Important stuff.”

“I told you about Vanessa,” Deadpool says, oddly serious.

Peter stares at him. “Who? No, you didn’t.”

“I did so! Dead Girlfriends Club, remember?”

Peter wordlessly works his jaw. “That was— You didn’t— I told you about _my_ dead friend and then you tried to high-five me! _You_ didn’t tell _me_ anything!”

“I did too!” Deadpool insists. “Skeeball? Star Wars? _Clown porn?_ That was all about Vanessa!”

“Well, you didn’t tell me that! How was I supposed to know?” Peter yells back. Then he pauses. “Wait, you were serious about the clown porn?”

“No. Well yes, but no. That was part of her tragic back story. Or was it my tragic back story? The details are kind of— The point is, I do too tell you important stuff.”

“Without context! How am I supposed to know Ring Pops are important because your girlfriend liked them if you don’t tell me—,”

“She didn’t _like_ them. I proposed to her with one! Well, she also liked them but the important part is the proposing thing.”

What the _fuck._ Peter presses the heels of his hands hard against the sides of his head and stares sightlessly at the ceiling. What. The. Fuck.

“So…” What the fuck. “Did she say yes?”

“Obviously,” Deadpool says flippantly. “I was a sexy motherfucker before the cancer caught up to me. And her crazy matched my crazy so— Yeah, I know I was less crazy back then. Probably because I didn’t have to deal with you shitheads!”

“White, Yellow, not now,” Peter snaps. “You had _cancer?”_

“Have. I _have_ cancer. Baby boy, I’m starting to think you don’t listen when I talk.”

“I do too! You just don’t clue me in on what the fuck you’re talking about. I’m not a mind reader! And what do you mean, you have cancer. Shouldn’t your healing factor take care of that?”

Deadpool shrugs. “It keeps it at bay but I’m too far gone to get rid of it entirely. That’s why I look like this.” He gestures to all of him.

This entire conversation might be a revelation on how little he understands Deadpool, but he understands enough to know he’s not talking about his ripped bod. He’s talking about the sores and bumps and scars that he’s seen coating his chin, jawline, cheeks, and presumably the rest of him as well.

“Oh.”

“Is this why you left? You thought I wasn’t pulling my weight in the friendship department?”

What’s he supposed to say?

_I realized I care about you as a person and I panicked? Being my friend tends to have horrible life-altering consequences so I tried to spare you by cutting all ties?_

Yeah. He’s not telling him that. He _can’t_ tell him that. It’s not like he’d listen anyway. Stubborn ass.

“Yep. That’s— Yep.”

Deadpool stares at him. He stares back. Time passes. Stars die. Peter _sweats._

“Well,” Deadpool says slowly, “Problem solved then, right?” he exclaims, his animation returning as he begins to pace the length of the couch, a bounce in his step and his arms windmilling as he speaks. “I told you about Vanessa. You told me about Gwanda. We’re simpatico again!”

Peter winces. He forgot he called her _Gwanda._ He has _got_ to get better at lying. MJ always said he’s a lost cause and he’s starting to think she’s right.

“I… Yeah, we’re simpatico.”

He’s going to regret this.

Deadpool collapses on the end of the couch and Peter barely manages to pull up his feet to avoid being crushed.

“Thank _fuck_ that’s over,” Deadpool says, taking Peter’s ankles and situating his feet in his lap as he begins absently massaging them. “They missed you, you know.”

He should pull away. He should sit up. Foot massages are weirdly intimate and they aren’t _there_ yet. But… it feels really good.

“Who?” he asks. He bites back a groan as Deadpool works a particularly sensitive spot in his arch.

“White and Yellow. Don’t try to deny it! You’ve been whining and belly-aching for— He doesn’t need to know that!”

They did? Does that mean Deadpool missed him? Of course he did. Why would he have put in so much work to track him down and work things out if he didn’t? But he’s never been sure how autonomous his boxes are. How much of them is Deadpool and how much is… something else. It doesn’t seem like they get along a lot of the time, which makes him think they’re Deadpool’s most negative thoughts about himself materialized as ‘boxes’ in his head. But sometimes he giggles and jokes with them too. It’s confusing.

“Yellow wants me to tell you a joke they came up with.”

Seriously? Can the boxes hear his thoughts? _Hello? Have Deadpool say Hakuna Matata if you can hear this._

Deadpool stares at him. Right. He should respond.

“‘They’ as in White too or just Yellow?”

“White wants no association.”

“Oh no.”

“Are you ready?”

Peter sighs. “Let’s hear it.”

“What do you call someone who doesn’t fart in public?”

Oh boy. “What?”

“A private tutor!” Deadpool exclaims and then dissolves into giggles.

A reluctant chuckle escapes him, more to do with Deadpool’s glee than the joke that he’s definitely heard before. Maybe he missed Deadpool too. Maybe someday he’ll be able to admit that. Maybe… Maybe this time it won’t end in flames and heartbreak.

“I think he liked it,” Deadpool whispers.

He doesn’t correct him.

~*~

_Ten Months Since The Start_

“Why don’t you ever call me by my name?”

Peter fumbles to a stop mid-ramble about one of his classes (careful to leave out details such as teacher, school, and that it’s about a class he’s taking and isn’t just something he picked up from a Wiki-binge).

“Huh?”

“You know it, right?” Deadpool asks.

They’re on opposite ends of the couch, Peter with his suit in his lap and his legs stretched across the middle cushion as he stitches a nasty gash that matches the stitched up wound across his chest and Deadpool with a gun in pieces on the coffee table as he meticulously cleans each bit.

“You got S.H.I.E.L.D.’s big nasty file on me as soon as I landed in the city, didn’t you? Maybe even before that. So why don’t you call me by my name?”

“I... I dunno. I’m respecting your privacy.”

He snorts and pinches Peter’s big toe and wiggles it. “I don’t have a secret identity, baby boy. There’s nothin’ to protect. A quick Google on either of my names’ll lead you straight to the other.”

Peter snatches his feet away from Wade’s grabby hands. “Okay...” He pauses. “So, Wade, were you even listening? Or do I need to start over at the atom?”

He laughs. “How ‘bout I go pick us up a pizza or seventeen and then you can wow me some more with your science mumbo jumbo? I thought Tony the Tiger was back in my bed for round two but that’s just your little tummy growling, isn’t it?”

Peter flushes hot under his mask. “I— No, you don’t have to do that. I can go—,”

“No way! You promised we could hang out today!”

“I said I could stay for a while and fix my suit,” Peter corrects.

He let Deadp _—Wade—_ stitch him up because, let’s face it, he’s way better at it, and when _Wade_ offered his sewing kit he couldn’t turn him down. Despite how frequently it seems to happen, he hates swinging through the city with wounds on display. It makes him look vulnerable and risks his identity. The last thing he needs is for someone to connect the dots between Spidey’s injuries and Peter Parker’s.

“Same difference! Please, Webs? I’ll get double pepperoni and we can play Mario Kart until you’re sick of losing to me and then we can watch monster movies until the sun comes up and I’ll make pancakes. It’ll be just like in the movies!”

“I…”

That does sound like fun. Should it? He’s not _supposed_ to be friends with a mercenary. What would Aunt May say? Then again, what would Aunt May say about most of the things he gets up to in his free time? Also, Wade’s not really a mercenary anymore. He still takes jobs but only the ones that don’t require a confirmed kill and can be solved without murder. So he says anyway, but what choice does he have but to believe him? He’s seen him in action enough to know he’s plenty capable of nonlethal violence but does he stick to that when Spider-Man’s not around?

“Alright,” he says, “but just pizza and video games. I can’t stay all night.”

He groans. “Alright _fine._ But I’m going to talk you into a slumber party one of these days.”

He snorts. “Good luck.”

“Don’t need luck when I’ve got maximum effort,” Wade mumbles, tapping on his phone. “You ever had Lombardi’s?”

He sits up. “You’re ordering Lombardi’s?”

“‘Course. Nothin’ but the best for you, sweetums!”

“You don’t have to—,”

“I don’t think you understand what maximum effort means. Now, do you want extra cheese or nah? Seems like they always skimp.”

Peter bites his lip but his stomach lets loose another growl, making its desire known. “Yeah, sure extra cheese,” he mumbles.

Wade smirks, his mask mimicking the expression, but he doesn’t say anything as he continues his tapping.

Peter goes back to sewing, mind churning over the implication that Deadp _—Wade—_ is essentially courting him. For friendship, but still. The problem is, he doesn’t think he minds. Despite everything, he _likes_ Wade. He enjoys hanging out with him. He just doesn’t think he _should._ He should have learned this lesson seven years ago.

“BRB!” Wade says, jumping to his feet so suddenly Peter sticks himself with the needle. “They don’t deliver this far so I gotta pick it up.”

Fighting the urge to rip off his glove and suck his stuck finger, Peter stares down at his half-stitched suit and then to his bare chest and the still fresh gash. He can’t go out like this. “I—,”

“Don’t sweat it, baby boy. You hang here and I’ll be back before you can say chimichangas!”

“Chimichangas,” he says dryly. “You really don’t have t—,”

“I can’t hear you!” Deadpool sings over his shoulder as he skips down the hall to the bedroom. “Don’t go anywhere! I’ve gotta slip into something more comfortable. Last time I went there in my full get-up they called the po-po. Can you believe that, Webs? Calling the police? On little ole me? I didn’t even point my gun at anyone! The time before doesn’t count!”

Deadpool continues babbling, his one-sided conversation punctuated with grunts and muffled words as he changes out of his suit.

Then he falls conspicuously silent. Peter stops his sewing and turns to frown at the empty hall. Before he can call out, light, barely-there footsteps announce Wade’s imminent return. Maybe the boxes are—

Wade hesitates at the end of the hall and Peter’s pretty sure his jaw drops. He’s wearing no pants and no mask, just a dark hoodie and Captain America boxer briefs. His hood is pulled up over his head but not so far that he can’t make out the wary expression on his face and—

Oh.

Oh _no._

His eyes are warm and soft and so much more expressive than he ever imagined. He thought he was good at getting expressions across through the mask but after seeing him without it it’s like he’s been talking to a brick wall all this time.

And holy shit, those _thighs._ He wrenches his gaze back up to his face before something humiliating happens.

_Breathe, idiot. And for the love of God, say something!_

“Are you going out like that?” he blurts, voice too airy as he stares into his eyes. Doubt skitters across Wade’s face like a beetle but he’s quick to squash it. _“Pants,_ Wade. I know the signs only specify shirt and shoes but the requirement for pants is heavily implied.”

Relief and something like amazement fills Wade’s eyes and he’s hooked. How’s he supposed to go back to talking to Deadpool’s mask after he’s had this glimpse of the man beneath it? Yeah, the scars are there, but he expected those and they’re not anything he hasn’t seen before during their many many meals together. They do seem like they cover everything, but Wade warned him of that so it’s not a surprise.

The lack of eyebrows… that’s unfortunate.

None of it matters though. How is he supposed to care about arbitrary crap like hair and skin when he can see the way his eyes light up with humor and the way his lips crack into a mischievous grin?

“Suuuure it is, Spidey. Just like you’re supposed to flush when all you did was pee.”

He winks and Peter’s heart skips a beat.

“I mean…”

“Ah-ah-ah! You can’t fool me but I’ll play along with your delicate sensibilities this time.” He ducks back into his room and when he comes back out he’s wearing sweatpants and a pair of sneakers ratty enough to contest the ones sitting at home next to Peter’s front door.

He has the front door open and is halfway through it when he says, “Make yourself at home. Mi casa es tu casa.”

“If that's your sneaky way of trying to get me to clean up for you, it won't work.”

Wade grins, wide and unhindered. “Dang, always knew you were too smart for me.”

“And don't you forget it.”

“I won’t.” He says it like a promise. Shooting one last look at Peter, he steps into the hall and shuts the door.

Peter ignores the smell and leans back heavily into the couch. Is that how Wade always looks at him? Like he’s shocked and delighted that he can stomach his company? Maybe he should stop pretending to be so bothered by him. God knows he stopped merely tolerating Wade’s company ages ago. Maybe it's time he acts like it.

Oh boy, he’s in trouble. Wade’s in trouble. Fuck, if this goes how it went the last time he tried to have friends the whole _city_ is in trouble. And yet… It feels like it’s too late to turn back. Like something is in motion and he’s just along for the ride.

~*~

_One Year Since The Start_

There is a familiar squeak of leather as someone sits beside him, near enough that he can feel the heat rolling off of them. He looks up already knowing who he’ll see but he’s still surprised to find Wade seated beside him on the crowded subway train.

He opens his mouth but then snaps it shut and ducks his head as he remembers he’s _Peter_ right now, not Spider-Man.

_Dumbass. Way to almost blow your biggest secret in the most idiotic way possible._

“Don’t worry,” Wade says.

He snaps his chin up to meet the sightless white eyes of Deadpool’s mask, heart thundering. Does he recognize him? Did he figure it out? Does he _know?_

“I’m following a strict no un-aliving regimen. Your pretty little face is safe.”

Oh.

“I wasn’t worried,” he says.

Wait. Should he be worried?

That came out wrong. What he means is, would a normal civilian be worried? His and Deadpool’s partnership has been in the news a lot over the past year but Deadpool is still technically a mercenary even if he doesn’t kill anymore. Ever since the general public found out about his career they’ve been luke-warm to him at best.

“Really?” Wade asks, straightening up and somehow exuding a surprised sort of pleasure as he looks down at Peter. He puffs out his chest and says, “I’m two days away from getting my one year chip.”

“I… didn’t know they made chips for that.” Is he in some kind of A.A. program for reformed killers that he doesn’t know about? How could he have missed that? There’s no way Wade wouldn’t tell him something like that. He’s not subtle when it comes to seeking Spider-Man’s approval.

“Oh, not that kind of chip. I was thinking barbecue or maybe a whole bunch of different kinds of Pringles.” He cocks his head to the side and says, “D’you think it cheapens the achievement if I get more than one kind of chip? Is it too grandiose? I mean, it’s only a year. Spidey’s been doing this for like a decade, you know? Maybe I should save the Pringles for the five-year mark or something. I _know_ Spidey doesn’t need chips…I get it! Shut up, I said I get it!”

“Uh, no?” Peter says, ignoring Wade’s internal argument. “I mean, it’s your celebration, right? You should do it however you want. You put in the work. You deserve the reward.”

Wade stares down at him in silence, mask unmoving.

He shifts in his seat and glances away, noticing for the first time that they have an audience although in typical New Yorker fashion they’re pretending not to eavesdrop. Deadpool is hard to ignore though, even by New York’s standards. It must look strange that he’s casually chatting with him about how long it’s been since he last killed someone.

He clears his throat and ducks his chin to his chest.

“You’re cute,” Wade finally says, drawing a blush to Peter’s cheeks. “Unfortunately, I’m off the market.”

Peter jerks his head up to stare. What? Since when is Wade _dating_ someone? And why didn’t he tell him?

Deadpool snorts and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Don’t make that face. It’s a one-sided kinda deal. There’s no way Spidey would ever go for a fuck up like me even if I wasn’t fugly as hell under all this.” He gestures down the length of his body and Peter’s mouth goes dry.

He’ll never understand how Wade can’t see how attractive he is. Yeah his skin isn’t uh, desirable and the lack of eyebrows takes some getting used to but the rest of him… His bright eyes, his booming laugh, broad shoulders, firm chest, toned abs, thighs… _Fuck,_ his thighs.

He sucks his lip and turns away, hoping to hide the flush lingering in his cheeks. _Stop it, stop it, stop it! Naked grandma! Aunt May walking in on his private time!_

He lets out a breath. Then realizes Wade is still talking, arms folded behind his head as he gazes up at the ceiling.

“…which, yeah of course he’s too good for me, _duh,_ but it’s like… I’m pretty sure we’re friends? Somehow? It was strictly co-workers for a long time but now we hang out outside of work so that means friends, right? And if I could somehow wear him down into being my friend then maybe there’s a chance for… I _know_ that’s a shitty way to start a relationship but I’m kind of a shitty person in case you haven’t noticed. Whatever. We shouldn’t drag him down to our level anyway.” He sighs and sits up, pivoting on his seat to look at Peter as their knees knock. “You’re a good listener, but this is my stop.” With a squeak of leather, he gets to his feet and calls to Peter over his shoulder, “Send me the bill.”

Giggling to himself, he disembarks.

Peter stares after him for a moment, struggling to process everything. Wade is two days away from a year of no killing? He considers himself ‘off the market’ because of their friendship? It’s a lot to take in.

What stop are they at anyway? He looks out at the platform and curses. He should have gotten off two stops ago. Now he’s going to be late for dinner. He snatches up his backpack and manages to squeeze between the doors just before they slip shut. He spots Wade as he disappears up the stairs and he can hear his rough voice chattering happily as he goes.

There’s a pinch in his chest as he realizes he wants to go with him but he shoves that feeling away. It’s silly. They just hung out yesterday and they likely will again tomorrow or if not, the day after. He can go one day without Wade. Besides, it’s already been too long since he’s visited May and he misses her too.

As he waits for a train to take him back the way he came, he indulges in a fantasy where May and Wade are in the same room at the same time and he doesn’t have to choose between them. It’s definitely not a meet-the-parents dinner in May’s apartment that he envisions. Him and Wade definitely don’t snuggle on the couch after dessert and May definitely doesn’t tease them good-naturedly about what a cute couple they are and make them promise to visit more often before they head home to their shared apartment. Nope.

He’s got a soulmate and Wade doesn’t so that’s not how it goes at all.

~*~

Peter smacks his head on the window frame as he tries to duck through it without letting the bulky plastic bags looped around his arm pull him off balance.

“Fuck!”

He keeps his feet but hits the floor with a thump that’s sure to upset the downstairs neighbors as the bags swing into the overturned cardboard box that functions as Wade’s nightstand. The shadeless lamp atop it pitches over the side. He lunges and catches it millimeters before the bare bulb hits the floor but the box is crushed in on one side now.

“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles. He wiggles his arm free from the bags, letting them clatter to the floor in a messy heap, and tucks the lamp in his armpit as he tries to fix the box. The crumpled side won’t straighten out fully but it’s level enough that the lamp doesn’t tip over when he sets it back on top so he figures it’s good enough.

“You’re right.”

He jumps and whirls to find Wade leaning one shoulder into the door frame, gun held loosely in his hand, the business end pointed at the floor as he shakes his head.

_Umm, hello? Spidey sense? Where the hell are ya?_

“He’s officially no longer allowed to make fun of the people we catch pulling B&Es,” Wade says. He’s dressed in a soft-looking long-sleeved red shirt and navy sweatpants. He’s also maskless which means Peter gets to see the way his eyes shine with mirth and his lips twist into a smirk.

“Shut up,” Peter says with a pout.

He pulls off his mask and tosses it onto the bed before ruffling his hair. He hates the way it sticks to his scalp after he’s been sweating and even though it’s early June it’s already ramping up to be a hot summer.

His heart drums in his chest and he carefully avoids looking at Wade as he says, “The difference is I’m not a career criminal so I’m not supposed to be good at it. I umm, I brought you a thing.”

He pats his hips until he finds the hidden pocket and pulls out the metal disk he’s spent the past two days slaving over. It turned out pretty good, he thinks. It’s a hefty gold metal that sparkles under the light in a way he knew Wade would like and right in the middle is a bold stamped “12 Months”. He skipped the usual ‘To Thine Own Self Be True’ inscription because that’s a lot of words he doesn’t trust himself not to fuck up with his terrible handwriting and also because it’s Wade. It’s impossible to tell how he would interpret an ambiguous statement like that.

He flips the chip to Wade but Wade stands stock still and doesn’t even try to catch it. It plinks off his chin, bounces off his chest, and rolls under the dresser.

“Dude! I worked hard on that!”

He feels Wade’s stare on his back as he drops to his hands and knees and feels blindly for the coin. He finds it and pulls it out along with a hearty helping of cobwebs.

“Bleck!” He shakes his hand violently to get them off but they cling tight so he’s forced to wipe them on his thigh. He suppresses a shudder and clambers back to his feet.

This is not going how he hoped.

Wade is still staring at him, eyes wide with shock. Peter’s kind of impressed. He’s never seen him struck speechless before. If the nerves weren’t starting to get to him he might’ve given himself a little pat on the back.

“Here.” He steps up to Wade and takes his wrist and presses the coin into his gun-free hand. “Just uh… Good job. I’m proud of you.”

_God, is he blushing? What a stupid thing to blush over. Get a grip, Parker!_

He clears his throat and backs up half a step. Oh no, he’s still really close. Would it be more awkward to back up again or to stay where he is?

Wade glances down at the coin in his palm but doesn’t seem to take it in before he looks back up at Peter. He licks his lips and then says, “Uh, Spidey? I think you—,”

“It’s Peter,” he interrupts, words jumping out of him like crickets as he tries not to wring his hands. “I mean, if you want, you can call me Peter. It’s…” He waves his hand in a way even he doesn’t understand. _Fuck._ He’d hoped Wade would roll with it and not make it a big deal. Oh, who was he kidding? Wade _loves_ making a big deal. That’s like, his whole thing.

Wade stares at him. “You’re right,” he mutters. “I think he did hit his head.”

“I did not! Well okay, I _did_ but it wasn’t that hard and I was already planning to do this anyway so… whatever. Just…You’re my friend. It seemed stupid to keep hiding from you.”

“I’m… what?”

“Wade, you’re my friend. You have been for a while.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and doesn’t tell him that if he didn’t have a soulmate out there somewhere they might be more. He doesn’t tell him that he wishes that the warmth curled around his heart wasn’t there so he could maybe kiss Wade without feeling like he’s cheating on someone he’s never met. He doesn’t tell him that he wishes that spot of warmth was matched to Wade.

Friends, he can do. _Best friends,_ even. It’ll have to be enough.

Wade looks down at the coin in his hand and understanding crosses his face. He closes his fist around the coin and pokes an accusatory finger into Peter’s chest. “You’re my shrink!”

“I— what?”

“From the train!” A grin starts to form only to freeze as Wade’s eyes go wide again and then his expression shutters and goes blank.

 _Shit._ This is _not_ going how he’d hoped.

He takes a deep breath.“So listen. I… what you said on the train…”

“Forget it,” Wade snaps. “I was being dumb. Crazy, remember? Don’t know what comes out of my own damn mouth half the time.” He laughs, but it’s a far cry from his usual exuberant cackle and the smile he forces doesn’t reach his eyes.

Peter chews his bottom lip. It’s tempting to let it go and forget about it. SO tempting. But… he wants Wade to know that he’s too hard on himself. That he, Peter, isn’t too good for him. Fuck knows, he’s got his own smorgasbord of problems. He wants to tell him that if fate hadn’t already paired him with someone else then he’d be willing to see where things go.

Or would that only make him feel worse? Would he try to get him to give it a try anyway? He’d hate that. He knows he’s never going to meet his soulmate and that they don’t want anything to do with him and that they’re better off without him but… they’re still his soulmate.

Maybe it’s for the best if he lets it go. What good would it do to tell Wade he wants him but won’t let himself have him?

“I got Pringles,” he says instead, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the forgotten bags on the floor under the window. “All the flavors, which… I didn’t realize there were so many? I had to go to like eight different bodegas and I’m definitely broke now so if you decide you want real food later you’re buying.”

He holds his breath as Wade glances from him to the bags and then back to him. Finally, a real smile cracks across his face and he sets his gun on the dresser. “All this for little ole me?”

Peter shrugs and looks away, not sure what kind of look is on his face. Oh man, he didn’t think this through. He didn’t factor in how often he relies on his mask to cover his expression around Wade. Now he’s going to see every blush, every dopey smile, every micro-expression that he can normally hide. Aunt May says he’s an open book. She can always tell what he’s feeling by the look on his face. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Look at you!” Wade exclaims, bounding forward to take Peter by the shoulders. He grins obnoxiously close to his face. “You’re so pretty, Petey!”

“Cut it out.” He scowls and shoves at Wade’s chest until Wade backs off with another laugh.

“Oh no!” Wade claps a hand to his face and rests his cheek on it, fluttering his lash-less eyes at Peter. “Your glare is way less scary without the mask. You’re totes adorbs! Yeah, yeah like a puppy! Or a baby skunk! There’s no way I can take your threats seriously now.”

He glares harder. “I can still kick your ass. Do you mind if I change in your bathroom?” He tugs at his backpack straps. “No point in hanging out in the suit now. Might as well get comfortable.”

“Baby boy, I would love nothing more than for you to get all comfy in my humble abode,” Wade says, retaking his spot against the door frame as he smiles at him lazily, arms crossed over his chest, “but you’re already showing more skin than ever so you might as well go whole hog right here, right now. Cut the suspense. Let go of the mystery. Let it aaaallllllllll hang out.”

Peter rolls his eyes and takes a small measure of satisfaction in knowing that Wade can see him do so for once.

“Ha ha.”

He shoulders past him, ignoring the way Wade fills the space, forcing Peter to push against his chest to get through. He ducks into the bathroom and shoves the door shut with a screech as it scraps against the frame.

He releases a silent sigh of relief and catches his reflection in the mirror. There’s still a light blush coloring his cheeks but he supposes he should get used to that if he’s going to be unmasking around Wade from now on.

He wiggles out of his suit and pulls on a pair of red and black checkered pajama pants and a well-worn black hoodie that only has a few holes in the hem. He does a double-take at his reflection and then snorts. He hadn’t meant to copy Deadpool’s color scheme but oh well. Today is supposed to be about celebrating Wade’s accomplishments so it won’t hurt to do a little extra ego-stroking. Probably.

~*~

“If I eat another Pringle I will pass away,” Peter moans. “Which organ is responsible for processing artificial flavors because I think it’s ready to give out.”

His legs are kicked over the back of the couch and his head is hanging off the seat. Wade is sprawled beside him, right-side-up, slumped into the cushion, and surrounded by empty Pringles cans.

“How should I know? You’re the science guy,” he mumbles, staring at the TV with unfocused eyes. He hums a little six-note tune to himself and then asks, “Should I order chimichangas, Bill? Billy Bob? Mr. Nye? Dr. Nye? Does Bill Nye have a doctorate? I feel like I should know this.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about but I’ve never said no to free tacos before and I’m not about to start now.”

Wade snorts a laugh and ruffles Peter’s hair as he hauls himself off the couch. He freezes once he’s on his feet, like he’s only now realizing what he did.

“Don’t forget sour cream this time,” Peter tells him before he can over-think it. He doesn’t want Wade to get self-conscious about touching him. He never shied away from physical contact when Peter was all suited up. He doesn’t want that to change now that he’s showing his face.

Wade glares down at him. “One time! One time in our entire year of best friendship I forget the sour cream and now I’m doomed to hear about it for the rest of forever. Can’t a guy catch a break around here?”

“Nope,” Peter says, grinning up at him. He pulls his knee almost to his nose and shoves Wade’s arm with his bare foot. “Hurry up and order. I’m starving.”

“You’re a bossy little thing, you know that? Also, be careful with those things. I’m a foot guy.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “You’re full of shit.”

Wade quirks an eyebrow, or what would be an eyebrow if he had any. “Yes, but more importantly I’m not picky about what parts of you get me going. If it’s gotta be feet then it can be feet.”

“Waaaade,” Peter whines. He juts out his bottom lip and holds his hands over his stomach.

“Ack!” Wade covers his eyes and stumbles blindly towards the kitchen. “Put those things away! Those Bambii eyes should be illegal. No one needs that much power!”

Peter laughs as Wade crashes into the wall and kicks over a crate of rubber bullets that scatter across the floor with the rest of the refuse before he finally manages to find the kitchen and disappears from sight.

His smile doesn’t fade as he tips over to sprawl across the full length of the couch. He’s warm in his hoodie with the AC blasting through the window unit and he can hear the low rumble of Wade’s voice in the kitchen as he places their usual order. The couch isn’t very comfortable—it still smells awful—but he’s content in a way he hasn’t been in a very very long time. Not since before Gwen. Not since before being Spider-Man ruined the lives of the three people he cares most about in the entire world outside of Aunt May.

Things are looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so long but also, you're welcome ;)
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who commented on the first chapter!!! You're amazing and you've blessed me with so many warm fuzzies they're taking over my house and I'm gonna have to buy a blow torch to keep them from escaping the property. This got SO MANY KUDOS SO FAST! I figured it would do well since it's 1) spideypool and 2) a soulmate au but HOLY CRAP you guys!!
> 
> I've figured out this is going to top out at 4 chapters. How gargantuan will those chapters end up? That's up to the powers that be. When I started writing this I thought it would be a neat 25-35k and that's... about where we're at now at the halfway point so, oops?


	3. Love Stuck

_One Year and Five Months Since the Start_

Rain streaks the window as thunder rattles the empty energy drink cans cluttering the coffee table. A sticky note loses its fight against gravity and disappears between his desk and the wall. He stares out into the premature dark. He’s trapped. He can’t patrol in this kind of weather. Well… he could and has but it’s always more trouble than it’s worth. He webs don’t stick, there’s hardly any crime to stop, and he ends up soaked and frozen in his spandex.

A jaunty, rhythmic knock against the front door jars him from his melancholy thoughts.

His desk chair slowly rotates until his shoulders are square with the door on the other side of the living room. Not many people know where to find him and of the few that do, only one would knock like that and… continue …knocking.

The knock has escalated into what sounds like a full song although he can’t put his finger on which one. He’s not in the mood to deal with Wade’s hyperactivity. He’s tired. No, not tired. He’s _bored,_ but it’s that kind of bored where you can’t make yourself do anything. A despondent lack of energy. A—

_“Answer the fuckin’ door!”_ A shrill voice next door screams.

Oh. Right. Wade’s still knocking.

With leaden feet, he trudges to the door, unlocks it, and opens it to find _Deadpool_ fully suited up on the other side.

He almost swallows his tongue.

_“AHHH AH-AH AH-I’M— HOOKED ON A FEELIN—,”_

He lurches forward and yanks him inside, ignoring the song he bursts into, then checks that no one was around to see him before slamming the door.

He shoves Wade’s chest hard. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he hisses in his face.

“It’s storming!” Wade chirps, not at all bothered by the aggression rolling off of him in waves. “So I knew you’d be home. You never go anywhere except work, other work, and sch—,”

“That’s not what I’m talking about! What the hell are you doing as _Deadpool_ outside of _Peter Parker’s_ apartment?! Are you _trying_ to blow my identity?”

“I…” Deadpool stares at him, mask abruptly blank. “You mean… I can’t be seen with you? You didn’t have a problem with me coming over last time.”

‘Last time’ was a month ago. He told Wade his full name and it took him less than 24 hours to track down his apartment and show up at his front door, a tower of pizza boxes in hand and a huge duffel bag on his shoulder crammed full of blankets, snacks, and video games. He accepted the pizza but turned down the game night because he still needed to patrol and write a report and go to work in the morning followed by classes in the afternoon and then patrolling again in the evening. Wash, rinse, repeat.

The duffel bag got tossed in the corner and has been sitting in a heap beside the TV ever since.

_“Last time,”_ Peter hisses, “you were _Wade,_ not Deadpool. Everyone knows Spider-Man and Deadpool are buddy-buddy! You can’t— We can’t—,”

He pulls in a breath to continue his rant and it whistles in his throat.

Fuck. He’s not going to have an anxiety attack over this. He’s _not._

He turns on his heel and marches for the kitchen, hoping Wade will have the good sense to stay behind. He doesn’t realize his hands are trembling until he’s trying to get a glass out of the dishwasher and it nearly tumbles from his fingers.

“Petey Pie, I hate to burst your bubble,” Wade says, oddly gentle as he takes the glass from him and puts it under the tap, “but everyone knows Wade Wilson and Deadpool are the same person, remember? Okay, maybe not _everyone_ but mask or no mask, people know who I am. No one’s bound to forget my freshly-fucked old avocado face in a hurry, you know? Not for lack of trying.”

It’s the worst thing he could possibly say.

He sinks to the floor and puts his back to the cabinet, relishing the sharp stab of the knob in his spine, and squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to regulate his breathing before he hyperventilates and passes out.

“We’ll figure something out,” Wade says quickly.

The glass of water is shoved between his hands and only his sticky fingers save him from a lap-full of water.

“I won’t use your front door anymore! I’ll use a window. Or you can always come to mine as Spidey and then change like normal. I won’t let anyone connect these dots, okay? And if they do I’ll shoot ‘em dead before they can touch a hair on your pretty little head.”

He tips his head back against the cupboard. “Wade.” Is it just him or is his breath coming a little easier?

“Oh right, your aunt’s pretty little head then!”

He opens his eyes. “Wade.” His heart is still beating hard in his chest but it’s not racing.

Wade pulls a straw out of an old fast food cup and drops it into the glass of water. “We can make this work, I promise. I’ll be on my very best behav—,”

“Wade,” he says tiredly. Who would have guessed he’d find Wade’s babbling to be a comfort?

“Drink up, baby boy.” He presses the glass closer to his face.

He glares but sucks down half the glass before saying, “If anyone finds out my identity you can’t kill them.”

“What if it’s a bad guy though? They’d tell everyone. They’d ruin your life.”

Peter laughs hollowly, stomach in his throat. Been there. Done that.

Wade cocks his head to the side and regards him curiously.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Just…” He breathes carefully through the anxiety still surging under his skin like liquid static. “Promise you won’t kill anyone because of me. I mean, don’t kill anyone, but especially not because of me.”

Wade drops to sit cross-legged in front of him. “But Petey—,”

“Will you take off your mask?” Call him spoiled, but he misses seeing Wade’s face, his expressions, his thoughts and it’s not fair that he’s sitting on his kitchen floor, teetering on the edge of a panic attack with no shields, no walls, and Wade gets to hide behind a mask.

Wade stills. “Ah, no can do today, baby boy. It’s not pretty under here.”

“Bad skin day?” he asks with a frown. “Doesn’t the suit make it worse?”

“Worth it,” Wade says, suddenly grinning through the mask. “I couldn’t pass up finally getting to do a sleepover!”

“A…what? I’ve got—,”

“Nothing!” Wade interrupts, disgustingly cheerful. “You’ve got _nothing_ going on. You can’t patrol because of the storm. I checked the radar. It’s supposed to keep going through the night and well into tomorrow.”

“Okay but—,”

“AND it’s Saturday,” Wade presses on. “That means no class or work tomorrow. No wiggling out of it this time! We’re going to eat take-out and play video games and paint each others’ nails and stay up all night gossiping and tomorrow I’ll make pancakes! It’s going to be the best sleepover ev—”

“I visit my aunt on Sundays.”

Wade flops flat on his back, leather suit slapping the linoleum. “Oh, come on! I had it all perfect and planned out and I’ve been waiting forever for the perfect storm—pun fucking _intended—_ and it was finally here and my skin is trying to boil off but I put on the suit anyway and I—,”

“Wade,” he says on a sigh. “Take off your mask and we’ll do the sleepover.”

Wade props himself up on his elbows and narrows his sightless white eyes at him. “You’ve been avoiding this sleepover for over a year. Why do you want me to take off my mask so bad?”

_I don’t want you to hide from me. I want you to trust me._

“How am I supposed to have fun when I know you’ll be uncomfortable the whole time? You know it doesn’t bother me, right?”

Wade frowns, mask tugging down around his mouth. “You haven’t seen it like this. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do too.” He raises his chin in challenge.

“You’re a stubborn little brat,” Wade says, making no move to lift his mask.

“And you’re a stubborn asshole. What’s your point? Are we doing a sleepover or not?”

Wade sits up with a sigh. “Webs—,”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Run away screaming? Take it off, Wade.”

“What if you toss your cookies?”

“I won’t. If I can almost have a panic attack in front of you, you can take off your mask. That’s equality.”

“Doesn’t seem equal from here.”

“You don’t get it,” he snaps. “You’re sitting in my _apartment_ right now, Wade. You know my face, my full name, where I live, where I go to school, _and_ that I’m Spider-Man. Do you know how many people know all of those things?”

Wade shakes his head.

“One.”

Wade stares at him, mask blank and unmoving, shoulders bunched up near his ears.

“It probably doesn’t seem like a lot but… my secret identity is everything. I’m _trying,_ okay? I’ve kept my identity from a friend before and it went… badly. I’m trying to be better but it’s really hard. I trust you but… it scares the shit out of me, you know?”

“You think I don’t trust you?” he asks.

“That’s not what I’m saying. Or maybe it is, I don’t know. I just… I know it’s a big deal to you but come on. It’s just skin, Wade. I don’t care about your skin.” He smirks. “If your personality didn’t scare me off, your face definitely won’t.”

Wade snorts and the tension finally breaks as his shoulders lower. “I guess that’s a fair point.” He fingers the bottom edge of his mask and says, “You sure you’re not gonna puke?”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Remember when you said I couldn’t eat two large double pepperoni pizzas while upside down?”

“Point. I’m sorry I ever doubted your iron-clad gut.”

“Damn straight.”

Wade pulls off his mask like he’s ripping off a band-aid.

Peter sucks in a breath through his teeth. His skin is normally pock-marked and lumpy but today it’s an irritated pink with a weepy patch on his chin and clusters of bright red sores dotting his scalp and cheeks.

“It looks horrible,” Wade murmurs, moving to put the mask back on.

Peter snatches it from him and before he can protest, webs it to the ceiling.

“Hey!”

“It looks like it _hurts._ Why are you torturing yourself?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before shoving to his feet, ignoring the sticky spot he lifts his hand off of. When was the last time he mopped? Does he _own_ a mop? He sets his water on the counter beside an old grease-soaked paper sack. “I’m starting a bath.”

“Webs—,”

He whirls to face him, still cross-legged on the floor.

“This isn’t up for debate, Wade.” God, he sounds like Uncle Ben. _Fuck._ “If it’s like that all over you’re not staying in that thing. It’s only making it worse. You need something breathable, not _leather._ Go pick out some clothes. I’ll let you know when the bath is ready.”

He stalks off to the bathroom and gives the tub a quick scrub before turning on the water and letting it fill.

Perched on the toilet, he consults the Google machine for advice. He doesn’t have anything for an oatmeal bath but he’s pretty sure he has some baking soda somewhere and he can run down the street to the bodega for some lotion while Wade soaks.

Plan decided, he heads back to the kitchen and is pleased to find Wade is no longer on the floor. Judging by the murmured half-conversation coming from his room he guesses he’s doing as he was told for once. After finding the baking soda and adding it to the bath, he stirs it around with his hand and shuts off the water.

Then he pokes his head into his bedroom to find his t-shirts laid out over every surface and Wade hunched in the middle of the chaos giggling into his fist.

Sighing, he leans against the door frame. He should have known better.

“Seriously?”

Wade grins at him, eyes wide and bright with delight. “I always knew you were a huge-ass nerd but this is next level. _Thirty-five,”_ he crows. “You have _thirty-five_ shirts with puns on them. I’ve never been more in love with anyone in my life. Sorry, Ness. You were the shit baby, but this is… Wow. Just wow.”

“Did you pick something? The internet says cotton is good.”

“How could I possibly choose? They’re all so equally wonderful!”

“Just pick. The bath is getting cold.”

“Yes, mommy dearest.”

For all his griping, he doesn’t seem to have a problem choosing his oldest most worn shirt. It’s a good choice. Soft and loose and faded almost pink after years of abuse.

One bath and a trip to the bodega later, Wade is shirtless and pacing the tiny bathroom while Peter drips rainwater in the doorway, lotion bottle in hand, cycling between not looking and looking respectfully. His skin is already a lot better.

“Why didn’t you warn me one of your spider friends was lurking in the corner?” Wade demands, waving his arms and nearly knocking the cup holding his toothbrush into the trash. “I had my schlong out and everything!”

He shoots him an incredulous glance. “How should I have known? I’m not— I’m not Ant-Man but for spiders! I can’t talk to them!”

“But… your Spidey sense.”

Peter stares at him. “That’s not— My Spidey sense only detects real threats. Threats to me. It’s not going to warn me about every little inconvenience you might run into.”

Wade stops pacing. “Wait. You’re saying your Spidey sense doesn’t sense spiders? I thought that was the whole thing?”

“You… You th-thought—,” He hunches over, laughing so hard he thinks for a moment he might actually throw up. The lotion slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor. “Y-you—,”

“First of all, I am perfectly valid in— Of course I thought— Get out.” Wade picks up the lotion and shoos him out of the room, slamming the door on his heels. “Don’t go far, Spider-Boy! Someone’s going to need to get my back!”

He stops laughing.

~*~

“For someone who claims not to care about my skin you seem to care an awful lot about my skin.”

“I _don’t_ care about your skin. I care about you, dumbass. If you’re hurting I want to fix it.”

With clinical efficiency, he lotions up the middle of Wade’s back. He is unaffected by the roll of muscle under his hand and the broad expanse of his shoulders, the little dimple above the waistband of his borrowed sweatpants, and the heat of his flesh.

Completely.

Utterly.

Unaffected.

He caps the lotion and sets it on the sink as Wade pulls on his shirt.

‘All the good chemistry jokes Argon,’ stretches across his chest and the sleeves hug his biceps far tighter than they ever have on him. Wade tugs the hem but it refuses to meet the waistband of his sweatpants.

Welp. This is gonna be torture.

He doesn’t know what kind of look is on his face but Wade’s gaze is heavy on him. He can’t meet it. He doesn’t know what he’ll see. He doesn’t know what’ll happen in his cramped bathroom, still steamy from the bath, if Wade is looking at him with heat in his eyes.

“Hey Petey,” Wade says, voice too soft.

His pants are still damp from the rain as he wipes the excess lotion on his thighs.“Yeah?” he asks Wade’s shoulder.

“Why do you… Sometimes I…”

He meets Wade’s eyes, taken aback by the insecurity crouched in his tone. He frowns as he takes in his wide eyes, the downward turn of his lips, the apprehensive line of his brow. Wade is supposed to be boisterous, unapologetically obnoxious, and in-your-face funny. He’s not supposed to be self-conscious or timid or whatever this is.

Wade drops his gaze to the floor. “Never mind,” he mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

With the new angle, he spots a blotch of white on Wade’s ear and snorts softly. “Missed a spot,” he says quietly.

Reaching up, he uses the pad of his thumb to wipe the glob of lotion from the shell of his ear. Heat rolls off of Wade, hotter than most people as his body constantly battles the cancer. It pulls him in like a lizard to a sun-warmed rock.

Wade looks up from his contemplation of the tile under his bare feet, surprise in his eyes just as Peter dabs the lotion on the tip of his nose.

He smirks and says, “There. Now you’re perfect.”

Wade smiles and whatever he’d been trying to say fades into irrelevance.

~*~

He’s a coward. A big pathetic coward.

All he can think about is his soulmate. His stupid absent soulmate. It’s like they’ve spent their whole life covered head to toe specifically to avoid any kind of interaction with him.

He’s holding back from living his life and for what? For _who?_ He decided after the spider bite he couldn’t drag anyone else into this mess he calls a life and that belief was only solidified after Gwen and everything else, but that doesn’t release him from the obligation he feels to the nameless person on the other end of that spot of warmth in his chest. He’s shackled to this person he’s never met and who has never bothered with so much as a ‘hello’ to him and he hates it. He hates _them._

If he was braver he’d say fuck them and let himself want Wade. If he wasn’t afraid that someday they’ll find each other and then… How would that be fair to Wade? He can’t take that chance. Wade knows he has a soulmate. He knows. He understands why they can’t be anything but friends.

Right?

A gust of rain slaps against the window and the sill cuts into his forehead but he doesn’t move out of his slump as Wade blusters behind him like a gnat determined to get swatted before the day is out. They’ve been off since the bathroom. He can hardly look at him without wanting to go cram his head in a bucket of ice water. It’s driving him nuts. Why can’t he hang out with his friend without this weird tension?

Although, with the way Wade is going on, that might not be an issue for much longer. The urge to kiss him is quickly being overrun by the desire to web his mouth shut.

“If I have to listen to one more of Jameson’s tirades I’m going to march down to the Bugle and give him a piece of my mind. Webbed-menace this! Terrorist Spiderman that! Did you hear what he—,”

“I can hear you saying it without the hyphen,” he snaps, the audacity drawing from his maudlin contemplation of the rain and life’s petty cruelties. “It’s _Spider-Man._ Get my name out of your mouth if you’re not going to say it right.”

“Ooo there’s the ole spitfire!” Wade exclaims collapsing onto the couch on his belly so he can prop his chin in his hands and grin his infuriating grin at him.

He glares at his reflection in the window.

“Who pissed in your Cheerios? You’ve been prickly since I got here. Wait! Let me guess. Robert Downey Jr.?”

His desk chair squeaks as he reclines and drops his head to hang upside-down over the back to frown at him. “Who?”

“Your buddy, Stark!”

“He’s not my buddy.” He’s his _annoyance_ if anything. Perpetual thorn in his side if he’s feeling generous. He misses when he was away on his month-long honeymoon.

“He seems to think he is if the way he’s always on my ass to stay away from you is anything to go off of.”

Peter sits up, chair screeching at the sudden movement, and swivels around. “Are you kidding me? He needs to mind his own business.” _And stop treating me like a kid._

“So he _is_ the one that pissed in your—,”

“No! No one did anything. It’s nothing.” He turns his back on Wade once more and presses his temple against the window, glaring at the relentless rain.

“Wait, wait, wait. Is it the _rain?_ Are you all pissy because you aren’t out there pounding bad guys?”

In the reflection on the glass, Wade looks tickled pink. Disgusting in his delight.

He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, unwilling to confirm or lie, and thumps his forehead against the glass twice.

“Aww Petey Pie, who knew you were such a workaholic! No, you’re right. We been knew. Is it the violence you miss, sugarplum? Gotta work out that aggression? You know, most people go to therapy.”

“Can’t afford therapy.” He doesn’t bother to bring up the whole secret identity thing. It feels like beating a dead horse at this point.

“The bottle then.”

“Can’t get drunk.” Not technically true, but it takes a lot of effort and a lot of alcohol to get him there, and at that point, it’s even more expensive than therapy and way less effective.

“Brothers in forced sobriety!” Wade cheers. “First the Dead Girlfriends Club and now—,”

“That’s not even an accurate title, Wade. Gwen was my friend and Vanessa was your fiance. It doesn’t fit.”

“Okay, your mood is officially bringing me down. You know what this means, right?”

“You’re going home?”

“Pfft, you can’t get rid of me that easily, boo bear.”

“Then what?”

“Video games! I bet I can kick your ass.”

He lifts his head and swings around to face him. “Not if I kick yours first.”

~*~

“When you said video games I thought you meant Mortal Kombat or—,”

“What’s wrong with Just Dance?” Wade demands as he drags the coffee table off to the side. A few cans topple to the carpet and he kicks them under the table. “Nintendo is underrated if you ask me. Xbox and Playstation are all single-shooter this, online PVP that. What happened to co-ops, huh? Couch PVP? What if I want to _Just Dance?”_

“It’s not even dancing!” He wiggles his joy-con at him. “As long as you move the controller right, you don’t have to—,”

“You sound like you don’t think you can beat me, Petey Pie.” Eyes dancing with enjoyment, he cocks an eyebrow (or what would be an eyebrow if he had hair). “Scared?”

His eyes narrow. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“I love it when you talk about my ass. You should do it more often. Loser buys dinner!”

“I’m feeling Thai. You can order whenever.”

“Oh-ho! Game on, sweetums.”

~*~

“For the last time,” Peter bites out through clenched teeth, “there’s no such thing as style points!”

“Doesn’t matter,” Wade says, flippant as he tosses his joycon next to the TV and collapses beside him onto the couch, bouncing him under the arm he slings across the back of the couch. “You still lost fair and square! Order up, dumpling.”

“I hate you.”

He’d like to claim Wade was an insurmountable distraction dancing around the living room in his too-small clothes—in _Peter’s_ too-small clothes—but if he’s being honest, Wade is just ridiculously good at this game.

“You love me. I want four chimichangas, two churr—,”

“I know your order,” he snaps. “Four _tacos_ with all the toppings, two churros with chocolate sauce, and an orange Fanta. I’m not an idiot.”

“See,” Wade says, leaning into his space with an infuriating grin. “Love.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back under the pretense of digging his phone out of his pocket. “Whatever. I can’t afford the churros so it’s just tacos tonight.”

“Aww c’mon! I earned those churros!”

“Buy them yourself then.”

“You’re ruining my perfect sleepover!”

“Not my problem.”

“Ugh! I have to do everything myself. What’s the point of winning if I don’t get the prize? Can I pick a new prize?” He perks up. “Like a kiss!” He puckers his lips obnoxiously and Peter’s stomach swoops.

“You gave up your prize of your own volition. You don’t get anything else.”

Wade groans and slouches back into the couch. “That’s not fair! Please, Webs?”

“Negotiate a better prize next time. Rematch?”

“If I win do I get—,”

“Just for fun this time. No prizes.”

“You? Fun? Who _are_ you? Are you a clone? Where’s my Petey? I want my grumpy, competitive, hot-head or nothing!”

He loses his battle with a smile but makes up for it by shoving Wade’s shoulder. “Hurry up and order so we can play.”

~*~

Gray sunlight cuts across his dingy kitchen as rain pitter-patters against the windows and Wade shakes his ass to Salt ‘n Peppa. The music is what woke him up but the smell of pancakes is what got him out of bed. Despite everything—the dismal weather, the late night, the 90’s rap, Wade’s singing—he can’t think of anything he’d rather wake up to.

He leans against the doorway and in his sleepy state, drinks him in. Wade’s skin is doing a lot better and the self-aggrandizing part of him contributes that to his insistence that he take care of himself. He looks happy. He looks _right._

Wade catches sight of him and beams, beckoning him with a crooked finger as he raps into the spatula.

> _“And just rock, baby-pop, don’t stop!_
> 
> _"Stick out your butt and shake what you got!”_

He straightens, swishes his hips to the beat on the way to the coffee maker, earning a loud guffaw from Wade who shimmies after him belting the chorus.

> _“Shake your thang. Ow!_
> 
> _“Do what you wanna do.”_

The coffee doesn’t get made and the pancake on the stove sets off the smoke alarm but he hasn’t felt this light in years.

~*~

_One Year and Ten Months Since The Start_

This is bad.

Oh, this is really bad.

His eyes stream as the neurotoxin burns his throat. The room flooded with the gas moments after they dropped in through the narrow basement window, his Spidey sense only warning him an instant before he got a face-full of the stuff.

A creeping sense of doom washes over him as the corners of his vision fuzzes. Beside him, Wade’s knees hit the floor. Terror clogs his throat. Is this it? Is he going to pass out? Or is Wade going to wake up next to his corpse?

He holds on as long as he can, desperately forcing his failing body towards the window. If he can get to fresh air then—

His arms give out and his chin cracks against the concrete floor as the world blanks out around him.

~*~

He’s fuzzy when he comes back, but he immediately recognizes where he is.

Panic rips through him.

“Stop,” he croaks. “Get me out of here. Let me—,” He gasps for air. “Let me out.”

They’re so happy.

Laughing and joking in his and Harry’s shitty little kitchen, Gwen and MJ are as desperately in love as he remembers. Harry is healthy and smiling. Peter himself looks tired, per the norm, but when MJ tugs him into the middle of the kitchen he goes with a laugh. She puts his hands on her hips and they dance and dance and dance.

Gwen and MJ split off, holding each other and swaying out of time to the music. He and Harry mockingly do the same until Harry waggles his eyebrows and lurches against him, pinning him against the counter and pretending to make out while Peter cackles and the girls giggle into each others’ shoulders.

He watches from above like some kind of specter. His lungs burn.

“Stop,” he protests weakly. His cheeks are wet. “Please, let me out.”

The memory changes.

He knows what it will be before it forms.

“Don’t do this. Let me out of here.”

Green Goblin materializes, cackling inches from his nose.

He flinches back, bile in his throat. “No, please,” he whispers. He’s trembling all over. He can’t relive this. He can’t. “Please, no.”

Norman. The first and only villain to uncover his identity and use it savagely against him. It didn’t matter that he’d known him for years. It didn’t matter that he was his son’s best friend. He destroyed everything.

Gwen.

She’s there and she’s falling. Despite his tears, he can see everything as clearly as he did when it happened. He’s a red and blue blur, webbing furiously after her but from this angle, it’s comically obvious he’ll never reach her in time.

He retches when he hears the snap of her neck, the wet crack of her skull hitting the floor. And then he’s kneeling over her broken body. Clear blue eyes, once bright and intelligent, are now sightless, empty. Blood pools in blonde hair.

“Gwen,” he sobs. “Gwen, I’m so sorry, Gwen. Oh God.”

Gwen’s phone rings. It’s MJ. He knew it back then and he knows it now. Of course it’s MJ. She felt it happen. She knows. She knows what he did. A lifetime without her soulmate. A lifetime with that cold empty feeling in her chest where the bond is meant to be. It’s a hell of a price to pay for his mistakes. His incompetence. He should have been better.

“It’s all my fault. MJ, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“What did you do, Peter.” Her voice echoes around him. Over and over. Those words reverberate through the tower.

What did you do. What did you do. What did you do.

“Peter.”

He’s in front of Harry now. He’s drained. Wrung out. Empty. But Harry looks it. He’s sweating and pale. The fist gripping the syringe shakes. Needle pressed against skin.

“Harry, no,” he pleads. _Not you too. You can’t leave me too._

“You pushed me to do this!” Harry shouts, tears streaming down his face. “It’s the only way!” He shoves the needle into his arm and depresses the plunger.

Green Goblin 2.0 laughs in his face and shoves him hard. He doesn’t fight. He can’t. That’s his best friend. He can’t hurt him.

He falls and falls and falls and falls and then smashes into the concrete, flat on his back. Ribs breaks, blood bubbles from between his lips. Agony.

“Harry—,”

“Harry is dead!” Green Goblin screams. “You killed him like you killed my father! Like you killed Gwen! You’re the monster! _Murderer!”_

“I’m not— I didn’t— It was an accident. I couldn’t—,”

“Excuses! You let him die! You let her die! You’re a killer, Spider-Man.”

“I’m not! I would die for you, Harry. I would die for any of you!”

“Prove it.”

The world lights up in a blast of orange and red and then goes dark and silent save for a lone scream of anguish piercing the black.

~*~

_“Christ,_ you’ve got some lungs on you, Webs.”

He’s trapped. Restrained. He violently tears away the restraints and twists free. Something cracks.

“Sonnuva biscuit eating mother _fuck!_ What was that for? Spidey? You in there, buddy?”

Bile rises in his throat so fast he barely has time to rip his mask up over his nose before he drops to his hands and knees and retches. Coughing and gagging, he wipes his mouth on the back of his arm and takes in his surroundings.

Harry is nowhere in sight. The explosion… There was an explosion, right? Where’s the damage? The smoke? The… anything. He’s in a basement, cracked concrete and damp walls. He’s alone except for…

“Wade?” he croaks, trembling. “Where’d Harry go? I have to… I have to…” Stop him? Save him? Which one was it again?

“Baby boy, I don’t know what you were seeing but it’s not real. That creepy douchebag got us good with some kind of hallucinogen. Seems like it hit you hard.”

“Not real?” he echoes. That’s not right. It was real. It _was._ He remembers it all. Everything that happened. Everything he destroyed. Of course it’s real; it’s his life. Or what’s left of it.

“That’s right, buddy. It was all in your head. Everything’s okay. Well, not everything. That creepazoid is still out there and we’ve gotta stop him, right? Put that douche behind bars where he belongs? You up for some ass-kickin’?”

No. He’s trembling so hard he can barely stand. His head is pounding and his vision is blurred. He’s raw from reliving one of the worst nights of his life and everything that followed.

Still. That’s never stopped him before. He tugs his mask in place.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

He lets Deadpool lead the way up the stairs. His arm is hanging weird at his side. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t like that before the neurotoxin got them.

“What happened to your arm?” he asks.

“Don’t worry about it,” Deadpool says shortly. “It’ll heal up in a jiff.”

He frowns. Did he do that? Everything is muddled in his head.

“You want me to hold this guy down while you wail on him?” Deadpool asks. “Or I’ll shoot out his knee caps and then you kick him in the nuts as many times as you want.”

“Let’s just finish this,” he says. He needs to make sure this drug doesn’t make it out on the street but he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and forget.

~*~

He doesn’t patrol for a week. He can’t look at his suit without smelling the putrid smoke from Green Goblin’s bombs or hearing the accusation in MJ’s voice.

Blood in blonde hair.

He bails on Sunday dinner with Aunt May. Wade hovers. May frets. But he can’t talk to them. Not about this. If he tugs on that thread he’ll unravel entirely. He’s been ripped open and his insides clawed out. He’s been gutted, damaged, ruined.

He does his job cleaning the university. Goes home. Avoids Wade. Does his homework. Studies. Sometimes remembers to eat. Forgets to do his shopping. Avoids Wade. Lays in bed. Goes to work again. It’s not a comfortable routine. Nothing about this is comfortable.

Thursday is when Deadpool crashes through his living room window, guns blazing.

His coffee pot shatters in his hand under the force of a bullet he barely dodges. Hot coffee splatters across the kitchen and soaks into his socks.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YO—,”

Deadpool fires again.

He ducks the bullet and webs away one gun but Deadpool dodges the second web and takes aim. His Spidey sense blazes in warning and he jumps to the ceiling to avoid the next shot he fires.

He launches at him, barreling into his chest with a full tackle. They topple over the back of the couch and through the coffee table. He springs out of the splinters easily and webs the gun out of his hand and onto the ceiling.

“Yeah, fight me!” Wade pants, rolling to his feet and readying his fists.

“I…” He stares at him. _What the hell is going on?_ “No. Wade, what are you—,”

“Fine.” He flips a tiny blade out of a hidden pocket in his forearm and rushes him, stabbing at his thigh.

He twitches out of the way and Wade’s blade digs deep into the armrest of the couch.

“Goddamn it, Wade! What the fuck is wrong with—,”

Wade turns on him. “Fight me!”

“No!”

“Dammit Peter, _fight me!”_

Wade lunges at him with another blade but instead of dodging, this time he catches his wrist. Wade’s ready for him and yanks him closer as his Spidey sense sings in warning.

He stops playing. Wrenching back Wade’s wrist, he twists out of the way of the third blade, and with a foot to the chest, he sends Wade crashing into the wall. Before he can regain his feet he webs him there.

Wade struggles for a few seconds and then gives up, going limp against the webbing coating his chest and pinning his arms firmly against the wall. “You’re such a fucking cheater, you know that?”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” he explodes. “My apartment, Wade! My neighbors! My _coffee pot!”_

“Rubber bullets. They won’t go through walls.”

“My fucking coffee pot, Wade! Why would you do that?!”

“You weren’t listening to me!” Wade bellows, straining against the webbing. “I had to do something to bring you back!”

“I never left, you asshole! I’ve been right here the entire goddamn—,”

“That’s the problem!” Wade snaps, yanking hard on the webs binding him, but to no avail. “You _stopped._ You stopped being Spider-Man. You stopped talking. You stopped everything. It’s time to wake up! Whatever happened, whatever you saw, it’s over. It happened and it’s over and there’s nothing you can do about it except keep living.”

They stare at each other, chests heaving and hands in fists.

“My friends,” he chokes out. “They were my friends, Wade. Then after everything, I still couldn’t hang up the mask.” He swallows. “That’s fucked up, isn’t it? Spider-Man tore my friends’ lives to pieces _—my life_ to pieces—and I still couldn’t do it. I didn’t even last a week.”

“You love being Spider-Man,” Wade says. “Of course you couldn’t.”

He laughs, hollow and jagged. “Without Spider-Man there never would have been a Green Goblin. I cause 100% of the problems I solve. Jameson is right. New York would have been better off if I’d never put on the mask. Everything I do now is just damage control.”

“That’s not true. You don’t believe that.”

“Yes, I do. I stepped up and crime stepped up with me. If I—,”

“That’s _not true,”_ Wade insists. “All those supervillains would still be committing crimes without Spider-Man to force them into the light. Yeah, they stepped up their tech game but you didn’t drive anyone to a life of crime. That’s not on you, baby boy. They made their choice.”

He shakes his head. It wouldn’t be as bad. He knows it. He’s seen the lengths villains go to to keep up with him. It’s his fault the police can’t compete anymore. It’s on his shoulders.

“What about the Avengers, huh?” Wade presses. “The Fantastic Four? The X-Men? The Defenders? Are they complicit too? Or is it all about you?”

“That’s different! They suited up because they were needed. Something happened and they had to—,”

“And you didn’t? Why did you suit up?” Wade demands but he doesn’t wait for an answer. _“I know you._ You didn’t decide to become a vigilante on a whim. You were pushed just like everyone else was pushed. You saw something that needed fixed and you stepped up to do it. That’s not a _flaw,_ Webs.”

He shakes his head and turns away, arms crossed tight over his chest.

“What happens if you stop now?” Wade asks. “You think they’ll set aside their death machines and their supercolliders and go back to fighting with muskets and brass knuckles? I don’t get it! What does New York gain from you quitting? What do you gain?”

Chin to his chest and his back to Wade he can only repeat, “They were my friends, Wade.”

Wade is silent and then, “Is this a _guilt_ thing? You’re punishing yourself for— Holy fucking shit. Get me out of this stuff. I _knew_ this was a hug thing, not a guns thing. _Bullshit!_ You never said that! _I’m the one_ that said we should trap him in a week-long hug. You idiots said it was wishful thinking and he needed a kick in the— No, no, no! You don’t get to blame this on—,”

He changes the setting on his web-shooter and sprays a thin mist of solvent over the areas pinning Wade’s arms to the wall. The webbing immediately begins to dissolve and in moments Wade is free and yanking him into a hug.

He melts against him, curling his arms around his back as Wade’s high body temperature wraps around him like a familiar blanket.

“The cops are going to be here soon after all the noise,” he mumbles. He doesn’t want Wade to leave but if he stays there’s no way he can explain this without explaining his relationship with Deadpool and that can’t happen.

“Nah, I put notes under everyone’s doors saying we’re doing a skit and not to worry about bangs and shouting.”

“That can’t possibly be enough to keep someone from calling.”

“It is if the writer says it is and I don’t hear sirens, do you?”

He rests his forehead on Wade’s shoulder with an unhappy huff through his nose. “You’re sure none of the bullets went through the walls?”

“Positive. Tested it at my place before I came over.”

“Wade!” He pulls back to smack him only to find his t-shirt is glued to the webbing still splattered across Wade’s chest and his exposed biceps are stuck tight against his ribs. “Wade, you idiot, we’re stuck.”

Wade beams, scant inches from his nose. “Everything is going according to plan!”

He jerks his arms and hisses at the pull on his flesh. “I hate you.”

Wade nuzzles his hair with his nose. “I missed you, baby boy.”

“You owe me $1,000 and a new coffee pot.” He pauses for a moment, then adds. “And a month of free dinner for psychological damages. And a new window. And a new coffee table.”

“Worth it. What’s the grand for?”

“The security deposit I won’t be getting back.”

“Ah, yeah I got you, buddy.”

“I don’t think I have enough towels to clean up the glass and coffee all over the kitchen.”

“We’ll mop it.”

“I don’t think I own a mop.”

Wade laughs, his chest shaking with it, and rests his cheek against the top of his head as he tightens his arms. Peter relaxes into his hold.

“I remember when I thought you were perfection in a spandex package.”

Peter scoffs. “Must’ve been a rude awakening.”

“Nope,” Wade says easily. “The best awakening. Wait, second best. Nothing tops that time with Thor.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“Jelly?”

“I _know_ you’re lying.”

“Why are you so sure?” He gasps. “Do you have a crush on him too?!”

“Everyone has a crush on Thor, Wade.”

~*~

Later, after the web fluid dissolves, they’re side-by-side on the couch. He was able to talk Wade down from his initial threat of a week-long hug and convinced him to settle for an arm around his shoulders until he falls asleep. He’d be lying if he said a large part of him wasn’t drinking in every moment and pushing to stay awake as long as possible.

But even he can only fight off sleep for so long before it sweeps his legs out from under him.

“Wade,” he murmurs, eyelids like cinder blocks tied to the legs of failed mobsters.

Wade hums and runs his thumb over his shoulder.

“What did you see?”

Wade stiffens. “What?”

Stupid. Stupid question. He shouldn’t have asked.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says all at once. “I was just… forget it.”

Stupid. Insensitive. Dick.

Why would Wade tell him when he can’t even bring himself to talk about what he saw? He knows how bad Wade has had it. Even if the symptoms of his P.T.S.D. weren’t as obvious as they are, S.H.I.E.L.D. is very thorough with their file keeping. It’s a miracle he’s still functioning after everything Weapon X did to him.

Stupid.

“It wasn’t nothin’ I’m not already used to seeing,” Wade says after a minute, a care to his words that isn’t normally present. “You don’t gotta worry about me, Webs.”

He frowns. “Wade…”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” he warns lightly, pinching his bicep. “I’m a-okay, Petey. Really. Things weren’t great for a while but it’s better now that… Now that… I’m better, okay?”

“Now that what?” he presses, curiosity overwhelming his decorum, what little of it he possesses.

Wade doesn’t answer. He slips his arm around his waist and fists his hand in his t-shirt, holding him close as he leans into him.

All at once, he realizes he doesn’t need him to say it. He gets it. He gets it better than anyone. Having someone in your corner, someone who sees you at your worst and accepts you anyway, it makes all the difference in the world. It doesn’t erase his struggle or his trauma. Having Wade in his life hasn’t _fixed_ him. But he feels stronger with him around. Accepted. Understood.

Better.

He presses his temple against Wade’s chest and so softly he can hardly hear it, he whispers, “Me too.”

~*~

_Two Years and Two Months Since The Start_

**It was an accident**

_It’s always an accident w you_

**Nuh uh!**

**Sometimes its an on purpose**

**Ok a lot times**

_Setting my stove on fire shouldn’t be an accident or an on purpose. It should Never! Happen! In the first place!_

**You don’t have all the facts!**

_What facts? The fact that you’re an idiot? No I’ve had that one for years_

**The fact that I love you**

_The fact that you’re full of shit?_

**The fact that ur my sun moon and stars?**

_The fact that ur only saying that so I won’t be mad_

**The fact that you only—**

Someone clears their throat.

He jerks up from his phone and zones back into the meeting to find everyone staring at him. ‘Everyone’ being the Avengers because, that’s right, he somehow got roped into attending the mission debrief after they finished clearing out the irradiated rat population that overwhelmed the city this morning. He’s been zoning in and out because—hello?—last he checked, he’s not an Avenger. But Captain America insisted because blah blah _unity_ blah blah _accountability_ blah blah something _free coffee._

“Uh… I didn’t do it?”

“Got a hot date, Spider-Kid?” Stark asks, frowning in disapproval.

Peter rolls his eyes, forever furious the action is lost on the other heroes. “One, it’s Spider-Man. Two, it’s just Wade.” He pointedly puts his phone away in his utility belt and ignores how it vibrates loudly three times in rapid succession.

“One,” Stark says, mimicking his tone, “that doesn’t answer my question, and two, we’ve been meaning to talk to you about him.”

“I want no part in this,” Black Widow says, jutting to her feet. “Lecture your kid about unhealthy relationships on your own time, Tony.”

“I’m not a kid!” Peter exclaims as Captain America adjourns the meeting and shoots Stark a look like he agrees with Widow.

His phone continues to vibrate incessantly. Christ, is he sending him a novel?

Then their implications sink in. “Wait, hold on. D’you think I’m dating Wade? Because I’m definitely not. We’re… uh… partners.” He cringes. Fuck, that’s just as bad.

_Just say friends, idiot! Admit you’re friends with Deadpool!_

“Right,” Stark says after a beat while the other Avengers exit the room talking to each other loudly as though to cover the awkwardness of their retreat. From the hall, Hawkeye shoots him a thumbs-up as the door closes on Falcon’s heels.

Stark draws in a deep breath. “Listen, I know a thing or two about… unconventional romantic partners and—,”

“OH! Would you look at the time!” He nearly faceplants, he’s out of his chair so fast. “I left my oven running and I need to go water my begonias before they leave for college! If you’ll excuse me.”

He dives for the ‘Spidey door’ and flips through the small square of open-able window and into a free fall before Stark can do more than level a disappointed dad stare at him. Thwipping out a web, he soars away from that beast of a conversation. Maybe it’s time for a vacation. An out of state vacation. Are the Avengers banned from any states? Maybe it’s time to get a passport.

Safely nestled in a secluded tree in Central Park, he takes out his phone to finish reading his texts. It’ll be at least 15 minutes before he makes it back to his apartment and who knows what kind of trouble Wade will get into unsupervised for 15 minutes. He already set the kitchen on fire and it’s never just one thing with him.

**The fact that you only ate a power bar for breakfast**

**The fact that you only eat those nasty things when you’re too exhausted for anything else**

**The fact that I wanted to make something nice for you to come home to**

**The fact that GIANT! MUTANT! RATS! were in the lobby and I HAD TO go help and ACCIDENTALLY left the stove on**

**Mrs. Ho owes me her LIFE. Your stove was a worthy sacrifice for that woman**

**Have you had her kimchi stew???**

**I’d sacrifice myself to the mutant rat gods in a heartbeat so long as I could have one last bowlful before they devour my intestines and feast upon my**

**Big**

**Throbbing**

**Heart**

**Are you ignoring me?**

**Wow. Petty**

**Hello??????**

**LOVEMELOVEMELOVEMELOVEME**

**PEEEETTTEEEYYYYYY**

After that, the text string dissolves into a wash of tearful emojis. He shakes his head with a smile and fires off a quick text telling him he’ll be home in twenty and there better be kimchi stew waiting for him because he’s craving it now. Nothing keeps Wade occupied like a last-minute quest.

~*~

Halfway through a home haircut, his patrol phone rings.

He shoots a significant look at Wade’s reflection in the mirror and says, _“This_ is why it gets so grown out.”

Wade sticks out his tongue and shuts off the clippers. “It’s unlucky you wear a mask. Otherwise, you could stop whatever baddie they need help with by making them laugh to death.”

He pulls a face and runs a hand through his hair. They only got through buzzing one side so the top is long and fluffy while the back and other side are scruffy and overgrown. Oh well. They can finish after.

“I don’t kill people. You coming?” he asks, shaking his head like a dog to free the loose hairs.

“Am I allowed? Last time they got all pissy.”

He shrugs. “They can get over it. You’re an asset whether they want to admit it or not.”

“There you go talking about my ass again, Petey. Show a girl some respect, would you? Give me a minute to gear up. You should rinse off.”

“I’ll manage,” he says, swiping at the little hairs clinging to his neck and shoulders with one hand as he picks up his phone with the other. He catches it just before it goes to voicemail. “Spidey’s Sub Shop. You got the dough, we deliver to-g—,”

“Cut the bullshit and get to Lower Manhattan,” Sue Storm snaps in his ear. There’s a horrible electric whine and then the line goes dead.

Yikes.

“Sue sounds stressed. We should hurry.”

“One step ahead of you, baby boy,” Wade says, reappearing in the doorway.

He sighs. “Pants, Wade. I don’t understand how you keep forgetting pants.”

~*~

“This is a nightmare,” he grumbles, shifting uncomfortably on the rooftop beside Deadpool.

“Ah, I doubt it’s that bad!” Wade chirps, reeling in his rappelling gun. “You can always tell the bad ones because you can see them coming from across the city.”

“I meant these stupid hairs.” He rolls his shoulders but the stabby itch remains unrelieved. If he was smart he’d have rinsed off before leaving the apartment like Wade suggested. He’s not smart. “D’you think I’ve got time for a quick dunk in that fountain over on—,”

He’s interrupted by a shrill ear-splitting whine followed by a boom that rattles the building under his feet.

“Aw, what the hell is that?” Wade whines.

“Four double pepperoni’s says it’s robots.”

“Robots? We already did robots! No way. The writer is gonna give us something new. My pizza’s on aliens.”

“Bet.”

“Go. I’ll catch up.”

“I’ll save you some robot ass to kick.” He crouches as he prepares to spring off the roof.

“Alien,” Wade corrects. “Wait! You can’t go without this.”

He pauses as Wade digs in one of his pouches. He pulls his hand back out with his thumb and index finger pinched together in a finger heart that he holds out to him.

“My love,” he says.

Peter snorts. “You’re an idiot.” He leaps from the roof and blows him a kiss as he twists through the air before firing a web.

Over his shoulder, he sees Wade catch the kiss and tuck it into his pouch for safekeeping before leaping after him. He bites back a smile and focuses on webbing.

~*~

“I can’t believe it was fucking robots again. This is favoritism!”

“Place the order, ‘Pool. I’m starving.”

“Little busy!”

Scrap metal flies as Deadpool tears through a legion of robots, blades whirling while overhead, he springs from street lamp to street lamp hurling newspaper boxes, manhole covers, and trash bins with his webs to clear swathes of robots from his path and keep Wade from getting overwhelmed.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as his Spidey sense hums lowly at the base of his skull.

“Boom!” he calls down to Deadpool, webbing a parked car and sending it crashing through the nearest robots. He dives down and webs Deadpool up out of the street, not slowing as Wade wraps his legs around his waist, slinging them as fast as he can into an alley. They hit the ground and slam into the side of a dumpster hard but neither of them pause to take stock of injuries.

As he tucks himself in the corner of protection offered by the meeting of the dumpster and the brick wall, a high-pitched whine rents the air. Deadpool hunches over him, boxing him in.

_Boom!_

An explosion rocks the building, cracking the concrete under their feet and raining dust and debris over them. Wade grunts but stays locked in place until the earth settles.

When Wade pulls back, his jaw works but the only thing he can hear is a ringing in his ears.

_Come on._ He wiggles his jaw and slowly sound filters back in. His ears ache. His heightened hearing can’t take much more of this.

“—you hit your head?” Wade is asking, fingertips feeling along his skull.

“I’m okay,” Peter says. “Just my ears. What about you?”

“Ah, you know me, baby boy. I can roll with the punches. Even if it’s bricks doing the punching.”

He frowns. The Four need to hurry the hell up and take out whatever is causing the explosions. Preferably before he loses his hearing entirely and Wade ends up a pile of bloody flesh. He’s starting to leave a trail.

“You don’t have to shield me every time,” he says, knowing it’s a vain protest.

Wade just snorts and doesn’t dignify that with a response. He gets to his feet and holds out a hand to pull him up as well. Side-by-side, they jog back out onto the street, now cracked and littered with robot remains. They don’t celebrate. They’ve learned there’s always more. They only need to find them.

These explosions are targeted. Rather than radiating out from the detonation point in a star-burst, they travel in a thick ray that cuts through miles of city starting at where the Four are fighting the robot overlord or whatever.

Deadpool hops onto his back, legs crossed around his waist, and then he swings them up and off the street, zipping closer to the epicenter of the fight.

“How many robos d’you think I can take out before the next explosion?” Deadpool shouts in his ear. “I say 250.”

He scoffs. “Maybe 175. _Maybe.”_

“Oh-ho, a challenge! You’re on, baby boy. Winner picks the movie to go with dinner?”

“You’re already buying the pizza so yeah, sure. I have some things I’ve been wanting to watch.”

“It’s a date!”

They round a skyscraper and find another street crawling with robots and farther up, the Avengers looking freshly arrived to the fight as they descend upon Washington Square Park.

These robots, they don’t do much. Mostly, they break things and scare people off the street. They’re almost helpful at keeping people from getting caught in the explosions and they aren’t difficult to smash either; it’s obvious they’re only around to thin out their forces and provide a distraction while the real fight goes down elsewhere.

He, for one, is more than happy to sit out the big fight. The only battles wackier than the ones the Avengers take on are the ones the Fantastic Four get tangled up in. He’ll gladly work the streets and keep civilians safe while the big guns deal the heavy hits. If it weren’t for those freaking explosions, this one might’ve been enjoyable.

“Don’t forget to count!” Deadpool shouts as they hit the low point of the swing and he lets go, falling fast to the street below.

“Don’t forget I’ve been on a Studio Ghibli binge!” he calls after him, zipping over to an awning with a decent vantage point.

Wade laughs as he unsheathes his katanas. “That’s not a threat, sugar booger, but you’re adorable for trying.”

Effortlessly, they fall back into their rhythm. With Wade on the ground, slicing and dicing, and Peter above him managing the flow of meat into the grinder, they steadily work their way closer to the park. Two years of having each other’s backs has created a well-oiled fighting machine.

They’re hovering around 150 robots that have fallen under Wade’s blades and Peter is starting to sweat when Iron Man flies over and starts shooting repulsor blasts into the herd, sending hot metal flying in all directions.

“HEY!” Deadpool bellows. “No fair! Get your own, Tin Man! The fate of Equestria is on the line!”

“Who invited the sociopath?” Stark snarks.

“We are _not_ watching the My Little Pony movie again,” he says with a grunt, ignoring Stark as he webs a robot about to get the drop on Deadpool and swings it around like a bola to wipe out several of its brethren.

“Not if Mr. _Stank_ doesn’t back off and go back to his side of the playground!” Wade laterally bisects a robot and then kicks the remains into two others that fall back under the weight.

“Sue me for helping!”

“You’re messing up my numbers, old man!”

“We’ve got this stretch covered, Iron Man.” He proves it with a burst of electrified webbing that takes out a cluster of five robots.

“That’s cheating! You’re cheating!”

“Are you saying you’d rather work with _him_ than me?” Stark demands.

The animosity in his tone catches him off guard and his next web misses its target and plasters harmlessly across the window of the restaurant across the street.

“I… uh, yeah I guess I am.”

Without another word, Iron Man turns midair and zooms back to the square with a bright flare of heat from his repulsors.

Huh. Weird.

He turns back to the fight at hand and sucks in a sharp breath, barely getting a web on the robot in time to stop it from clobbering Deadpool over the head as he stands stock-still staring at nothing.

“Hey! Focus up, ‘Pool.” He whips the robot into three more. “No ponies for you if you don’t take out another 40 of these guys.”

“Uh, right.”

Between the two of them, clearing the rest of the street is quick and easy. They’re on the outskirts of the square with only a handful of robots left, herded into a cluster with him and Wade on one end while Black Widow and Iron Man hold the line at the other to keep them pinned. Captain America, seeing they’ve got the square handled, leads the rest of the Avengers closer to the epicenter and the Four to help take down the big bad.

Deadpool has his katanas ready, one kill away from his goal of 250 when Peter shoots another burst of electrified webbing and the entire cluster goes down in a single fall.

Deadpool stills and then slowly turns to face him. “Oh, that is dirty pool. I’ll get you back for that.”

“Can you blame a guy for getting his heart set on Totoro?” he asks, hopping down to join him on the street. “I’m tired of ponies. We’ve watched it like seven times.”

“It’s my emotional support movie! You think I don’t need all the emotional support I can get?”

“Ain’t that the truth.” The words echo slightly within the helmet from which they were uttered.

Peter stiffens and turns to face Stark, fire curdling in his gut. “What’s your problem? Why are you always such a dick to him?”

“Would you like a list?” he asks with false sweetness. “Let’s count it off. One: he’s a psychotic killer!”

Peter lurches forward, a riotous cacophony of white-hot fury tearing through him. _“Don’t call him that!”_ he snarls, barely restraining himself from punching him, suit of armor or no. “You don’t get to write-off how hard he tries. You don’t get to ignore how much he’s changed. Just like _you_ changed. Or is Iron Man the only one allowed to do that and everyone else has to be crucified for their bad decisions?”

“Is now really the time?” Black Widow snaps.

“Why do you always stick up for him?” Iron Man demands. “What did he do to you to make you so blindly loyal?”

If there was ever a time he’d develop the ability to spit venom, now would be it.

_“Blindly loyal?_ He’s my best friend, you ass hat! I’m loyal to him because he _deserves_ it. Because he has my back!”

Blood thundering in his ears, he turns on his heel and stalks over to Wade, meeting the sightless white eyes that are fixated on him and only him, his mask unreadable. “Let’s get the hell out of here, ‘Pool. We can grab the pizza and—,”

He stops as his Spidey sense sings to life and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Boom,” he says, pivoting in search of cover. They’re in the middle of the square. There’s nothing except the arch and the fountain and they’re smack between the two.

Wade curses.

“The fountain!” he shouts.

He dashes for it, Wade on his heels, but when he looks over his shoulder, no one is following. Stark in his armor will be fine but Natasha is only human. She’ll die if she gets caught in the explosion head-on. There’s no time. It’s happening any second.

He plants his feet, skidding to a halt as he plasters two webs to Black Widow, one to her hip and the other to the opposite shoulder.

“Hey!” she shouts, but he’s already yanking her off balance and into his grasp.

“What’s going on?” Stark demands.

Widow twists to break his grip but again he shouts, “Boom!” and somehow that’s enough to convince her to trust him.

“‘Pool!” he yells and bodily yeets her through the air.

Tony grabs him, shouting something, but he’s not listening. There’s no time.

“Webs, you idiot!” Deadpool slows her fall rather than catching her outright, letting her hit the water with a splash as he sprints for Peter.

It’s too late. Time’s up.

He takes Tony to the ground with him and shouts, “Get down!”

That ear-piercing whistle rips through the air as he hits the ground, arms over his head. Then the world whites out.

A wave of energy rips him away from Stark, sending him skidding and tumbling across the pavement before he manages to stick his hands flat to the ground and hunker in place as silent heat licks his back and the sharp sting of small debris tears into his flesh.

Something heavy smashes into him, flattening him to the ground. In all the chaos, it takes him a moment to recognize Wade, once again using his body as cover to keep him from getting shredded to pieces.

Everything stills. A steady ringing is all he hears as Wade’s weight pins him to the ground. Is it over? He can’t tell. All he can hear is the ringing and Wade isn’t getting up.

Is he normally this heavy?

Shit.

He wiggles out from under him and sucks in a breath as he takes in the destruction all around. Dust hangs in the air and torn concrete and jagged metal litter the square along with garbage and shredded bits of awning and billboards.

The arch is in pieces, a sizable chunk of which is crushing Wade’s lower half, pinning him face-down to the concrete.

“Wade!” He ignores that he can’t hear his own voice and scrambles to heft the massive stone off of him, tossing it aside without a thought. “Are you okay?”

His mouth movements feel weird and he can’t tell how loudly he’s speaking but he must be getting through because Wade rolls over onto his back and lifts the edge of his mask so he can see his mouth moving. Before he can suss out what he’s saying, a heavy metal hand claps onto his shoulder, startling him, and spinning him around.

Beat up and dusty, Iron Man’s blank metal faceplate stares down at him. He stares back, waiting for a lecture that never comes. A smile slowly creeps over his face.

You know, this hearing loss thing might not be so bad after all. Maybe he’ll get lucky and it’ll be permanent.

A rock cracks against his temple.

“Ow!”

Holding the side of his head, he glares at Deadpool.

_‘Stop ignoring me.’_ Wade’s lips form the words with painstaking clarity.

He sticks his tongue out and tastes dusty spandex. Yuck.

Natasha approaches them, wringing water out of her hair and saying something to Stark while tipping her head towards him. Other than a bloody scrape on her forehead she seems fine.

Everyone turns to look at him, expressions expectant. He must have missed something but he doesn’t even know who would have said it.

He wiggles his jaw and his hearing comes back all at once.

He drops to his knees, clapping his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to block out the deluge of sound. Everything within a two-block radius slams into him like a tsunami—violent, crushing, suffocating. The voices of New Yorkers huddled in their apartments or hunkered down in street-level shops waiting out the rampage, the hum of electronics, the crash and crumble of the fighting still happening elsewhere.

It takes him a moment to get his filters back in place and by then he has a raging headache.

“—him some space!”

“I’m making sure he’s okay!”

“I’m fine,” he says. He resists the temptation to collapse on his backside for a breather and forces his feet back under him.

“Like hell you are,” Stark snaps, hovering over him like he’s about to abduct him for a friendly probe from Pollination Technician 4.

“If he says he’s fine then he’s fine, Tony.” Both Wade and Tony make noises of disbelief but Black Widow continues before either of them can reply. “Thanks for the save, Spidey. I owe you one.”

His jaw drops. Black Widow owes him. Holy shit that’s cool.

“I helped!” Wade says from the ground.

She lifts an eyebrow and pointedly flicks a lock of wet hair out of her face. “Yeah,” she says dryly. She turns to Stark. “Steve says they’ve neutralized the threat. That was the death scream or something. I’ll let him know you’ll catch up for clean up detail once you’re done lecturing your kid.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“I’m not a kid!”

“Spidey, babe, I think you’re missing her implication that you’re _his—,”_

“I’m not sticking around for this. Don’t take too long, Tony,” Widow says and jogs off without a backward glance.

“All’s well that ends well,” Peter says, too loudly. “We’ll get out of your—,”

“I don’t think so, squirt,” Stark says. His faceplate flips back to reveal his Angry Eyebrows. “What the hell was that? _Boom?_ That’s all I get is _boom?”_

“Well see there was an explosion. Maybe you didn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed. I noticed you leaping straight into it! Do you have a death wish? You know you’re not invincible, right? You could have died!”

“I’m fine! It was totally under control. Tell him, Wade.”

“Um actually Spidey-kins, my dearly beloved, I’m siding with the Iron Geezer on this one. That was some bullshit you pulled.”

He flaps his arms. “What was I supposed to do? Let her _die?”_

_“You_ could have died!” Stark shouts.

“I’m tougher than you think! You,” he points at Stark, “I expect this from, but you,” he rounds on Wade. “What the fuck? We’re supposed to be a team. We’re supposed to be equals. I don’t need anyone to protect me, Wade. Not even you.”

“I’m not going to let you die to assuage your hero complex,” Wade snaps.

“And if you had to choose?” he demands. “Me or someone else? Someone innocent?”

“You. Every time. No question.”

He stalks away only to turn and stalk back, jaw clenched, shaking his head. “Wade—,”

“You wanna know why?” Wade asks, jaw tipped up stubbornly, elbows propped beneath him as his ruined legs lay motionless in front of him. “Because you’re _better_ than them. That’s not even my opinion. That’s the God-honest truth. I don’t care if it’s Obama himself. I’m going for you every time.”

“At least we agree on one thing,” Stark grumbles.

Deadpool unholsters a gun, points it, and fires.

Stark flinches, stumbling to the side as behind him a lone robot that must have been missed, sheltered, in an alley somewhere, shorts out and collapses to the ground.

“Two-fifty! I win!”

His anger slowly drains away at the impossibility of the situation. He puts his hands on his hips and stares down at the twitching robot. How? He rigged the game and still lost. Parker Luck strikes again.

“Well, fuck me I guess.”

“Aw c’mon, Webs. Don’t tease me in front of your daddy-figure. Besides, it’s not all bad. We both know you’ve got a soft spot for Fluttershy.”

“Everybody likes Fluttershy!” Unbelievable. Just when he thought he was in the clear. Unbelievable.

“Uh, he almost shot me and you’re okay with that?” Stark says, eyes wide on Wade’s gun as he holsters it.

“He wasn’t going to hit you,” Peter scoffs.

“Yeah, I have impeachable aim!”

He pivots to glare at Wade. “I know you’re using the wrong word on purpose to rile me up, but it won’t work. I deserve dessert to make up for my suffering.”

“You lost a bet fair and square!”

“Are you’re saying you _don’t_ want ice cream?”

Deadpool pauses. “Okay fine, but we split the cost because I didn’t lose this time.”

“Did too. You owe me pizza. Don’t think I forgot. How ‘bout you get the pizza and I’ll get the ice cream and we’ll meet back at my place.”

_“Your_ place? What’s wrong with mine?”

“Your couch is awful!”

“But I have the better TV _and_ the better sound system!”

“It’s just My Little Pony. Who cares?”

Deadpool gasps, hand flying to the base of his throat. “Take that back.”

“No. I’ll be at my place with ice cream. You can show up or not.”

“Wait!” Deadpool says before he can web off. “There’s one flaw in your plan.”

He raises an eyebrow that no one can see through the mask and waits.

“I can’t feel my toes.”

They look down at his crushed legs. One spasms but otherwise they remain very still and very crushed.

“Stop,” Stark says, stepping between them. “Both of you just… stop. Look, I’ve got somewhere to be so let’s wrap this up.”

“Oh perfect. I’m done so you can just fly back—,”

“I could have flown her out if you would have explained,” he states, cutting him off. “There was time for maybe ‘explosion incoming’ or—,”

“No, there wasn’t!” he snaps, losing the remaining shreds of his patience in one fell swoop. “If you would have run for the fountain when I said to then it would have been fine! Why can’t you trust my judgment without knowing every nitty-gritty detail that got me there? I know I keep saying it, but I’m not a kid! I don’t need a babysitter or—or a daddy-figure or whatever it is you’re trying to be to me. I do okay on my own. _Good_ sometimes even. If you want to team up, fine, but I don’t need anyone to hold my hand or check for monsters under my bed.”

“So hand-holding is off the table?”

“Not _now,_ Wade.”

Stark regards him for a long moment, lips pressed in a hard line while Wade hums the jeopardy theme. Finally, he sighs, “You’re right.”

Peter cocks his head to the side. “I am? I mean, _I_ know I am, but you know I am?”

“Listen, I want you to come work with me. Hear me out! I’ve seen what you can do with dumpster scraps. I want to see what you can do with a real lab. Real equipment. Maybe a mentor guiding you when you get stuck.”

He stares.

HOly shit. HOLY SHIT. Is this real??

“You’re shitting me.”

It’s too good to be true. It can’t be— Of course it can’t. How is it supposed to work unless… Oh.

His heart drops.

“You want me to unmask.”

Stark shrugs. “Ideally, yes, but we can work around it. You can come in that,” he waves a hand at all of him, lip curled in disdain, “if that’s what it’ll take to get you in the door.”

“I don’t trust your A.I.,” he blurts before he can get his hopes up. “No offense to J.A.R.V.I.S., but the more time I spend in your tower the more mannerisms he’s going to learn and you’ll be that much closer to my identity.”

Stark cracks a smile. “You’re smart, kid. It’s why I like you even though you’re a brat.”

“You should see him play Disney Princess Scene It. Total dunce.”

“Wade! Not now!”

Wade huffs and slumps miserably against the ground. “I’d storm off in a huff if I could. I hate being ignored.”

He ignores him.

“I’ll make a window in the code for you,” Stark says. “It’ll only apply to the lab and the path to your entrance.”

“The Spidey door,” he corrects.

“I’m not calling it that.”

He sighs. What a stick in the mud. “I want to review the code.”

“I’m not letting you look at—,”

“Just the part pertaining to the window.”

Stark purses his lips like he sucked a lemon.

“You gotta trust a little if you want trust in return,” Peter says, wincing as he realizes he’s paraphrasing Aunt May. Christ, he’s gotten old.

“Fine,” he agrees. “Who should I make the paycheck out to?”

He freezes. “Paycheck?”

Stark shoots him an incredulous stare. “Of course. Stark Industries has very strict restrictions on child labor practices.”

“Oh fuck you.”

Stark grins. “So? Paycheck? Do I get a name?”

“Parker,” he says after a beat. Wade stops humming and Stark’s expression goes slack with shock. “Have the checks made out to May Parker and mailed to the F.E.A.S.T. location in Greenwich. She’ll know what to do with them.”

Stark rolls his eyes. “Should’ve expected….” He sighs. “Alright, kid. We’ll do this your way.”

“One last condition,” Peter says.

“Seriously, you’d think you’re the one doing me a favor. Yeah, alright. Lay it on me.”

“Don’t ever make fun of Wade’s mental illness again.”

Stark stares at him, visibly taken aback. “I didn’t—,”

“Webs—,”

“I’m so serious right now, Tony. I don’t want to hear the word _psychotic_ come out of your mouth again and my hearing is excellent so don’t even—,”

“Alright,” Tony says, holding up his palms. “Okay, it’s a deal.” His faceplate flips into place and he points a stern metal finger at his chest as he says, “Tomorrow. Nine ‘o clock. I’ll be putting your brain to work so eat, get plenty of sleep, and bring your A-game.”

“Aye-Aye, Captain,” he says with a sloppy salute. “Oh shoot. Wrong Avenger. I mean Mr. Man, sir.”

“You’re a little shit, Spider-Man.” He turns his palms to the ground but pauses before blasting off. “Are you ever going to tell me?”

He doesn’t have to ask what he’s referring to. “I don’t know.”

“Why not? Haven’t I…” he trails off.

“I don’t know,” he mutters, scuffing his toe against a jagged chunk of concrete. “You’re pushing for it so hard it… it freaks me out.”

Tony hums. “Don’t be late.” With that, he takes off, rocketing across the square to meet up with the rest of the Avengers as clean up detail begins.

An awkward silence hangs in his wake. Is Wade upset with him? He doesn’t like his psychosis being talked about, not in a serious manner, but there’s no way he could have agreed without making sure Tony knew he won’t be tolerating any bad-mouthing against Wade while he’s around. Especially not when he knows how hard he works at managing it.

“Wow,” Wade finally says. “Not even a toodaloo for ole ‘Pool. I see how it is.”

That easily, the tension breaks. He snorts and sticks a glob of webbing to Wade’s chest. “Let’s get out of here. I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving. What about me, huh? What about my needs?”

He easily hefts Wade into his arms and slings him around onto his back as he says, “What do you call this? Why do I feel like I carry all the weight in this relationship?”

“Oh, that’s _rich.”_ Wade wraps his arms loosely around his neck, his chest stuck to his back as he wrangles Wade’s unresponsive legs around his waist and webs them in place. “Who was it that fished your ass out of the Hudson last week? _And the sewer_ last month?”

He shudders. “Alright, alright. Put the receipts away, ma’am. I’ll walk you across the street. Just stick with me and I’ll get you home safe and sound.”

“Oh haha, you’re hilarious.” He pinches his nipple and twists.

“Ow! Keep your hands to yourself or I’ll drop you at yours and do ice cream by myself!”

At the apartment, it’s a struggle to get Wade unstuck and through the window. Webbing with him on his back isn’t exactly a new experience for either of them, but normally Wade can help out a little more. He ends up accidentally spraying him in the face with the web dissolver and then shoving him through the window headfirst as his Spidey sense tingles, indicating he’s about to have eyes on him. He dives after him and they land in a groaning heap at the foot of the bed.

“Anybody ever tell you you’ve got bony knees, Petey?” Wade wheezes, clutching his sternum.

“My aunt,” he grunts, rolling to his back. He reaches behind his head and rips off his mask, sucking in a breath of stale apartment air. Gross. His carpet smells like dust and old socks. Maybe it’s time to invest in a vacuum. This is the first time he’s held onto an apartment long enough for it to bother him.

Wade barks a laugh. “I forgot about your hair,” chokes out between giggles.

He runs a hand through his half-buzzed cut in dismay. “How long until you can finish this?”

“At least an hour,” he says, grinning through his mask. “My bones are like nerds rattling around in there. The candy, not Star Wars fans.”

Peter lays his head against Wade’s outstretched arm and gazes up at the ceiling with a depressed sigh. “I can’t go out like this.”

“Daww widdle baby Spidey has a vain stweak. Whodda thu—,”

“That means no ice cream, Wade.”

“Awww maaaaan.”

His head is throbbing and his ears still hurt—his full range of hearing isn’t back yet but he seems to have made it out of the fight okay. His body aches in that almost pleasant post-workout way. Sore muscles and achy joints. Some bumps, scrapes, and bruises but nothing that’ll give him trouble in the lab tomorrow.

A giddy burst of excitement twists his stomach. He can’t believe he’s going to be working with Tony Stark. He has worked alongside Iron Man plenty, but Tony Stark? The engineer? The scientist? The genius? That’s a big deal. That’s huge. Hopefully he can keep up and not look like a fool. He has one year left before he graduates and then…

His excitement dims.

How is he supposed to benefit from this opportunity as Peter Parker without revealing his identity? He can’t put it on his resume. They’d want a reference for sure. Maybe… he could just… keep working as Spider-Man? How long can he pull _that_ off?

More importantly, how big is this paycheck going to be?

“Webs,” Wade says, voice soft as it draws him from his thoughts. “Did you mean what you said to Shell Head back there?”

“Uh, which part?” He turns, something sticky on Wade’s bicep pulling his cheek. Probably blood. Ugh.

Wade is still wearing his mask and is looking up at the ceiling as he says, “About us being best friends and that you’d rather fight with me than with him.”

“Oh. Yeah. I did.” Is that strange? It shouldn’t be, right? They’ve been partners in fighting crime for so long it would be weird to partner up with someone else and leave Wade on his own.

“But he’s Iron Man,” Wade says with a strange vulnerability in his tone. “He’s an Avenger.”

“So? You’re my best friend.”

Wade makes a strange sound in the back of his throat. “You didn’t have to stick up for me. About the… the head stuff.”

“Yes I did, Wade,” he says with finality.

Wade doesn’t say anything to that.

~*~

“Seriously,” he snaps. “Stop dodging the question and—,”

“Do you want me to lie to make you feel better?” Wade barks, gesticulating widely from his end of the couch. “Suuure, Petey,” he says, tone rancid with sarcasm. “I’d let you die to save some _rando_ who probably doesn’t wash his hands after he pisses. Can we be _done_ now?”

Peter sinks back into the couch, arms crossed. “Whatever,” he says under his breath.

Wade’s been in a _mood_ tonight. He’s quiet and short-tempered and _quiet._ He hasn’t taken off his mask which means he’s hiding something. Probably how much pain he’s in as his legs continue to heal.

Guilt sweeps over him. He shouldn’t be antagonizing him while he’s hurt like this. Especially since he got hurt protecting him.

He chews his lip and then asks, “How are your legs?”

“Hmm?” Wade tears his focus away from the TV and then pitches his voice into a lighter tone as he says, “Oh, I’m a-okay, little buddy! No need to worry about ole ‘Pool.”

He holds back a scoff. Wade may be hiding his face behind the mask, but his ears are working fine and he can hear the forced levity in his tone. Even injured, Wade isn’t the quiet type. He’s always been more inclined to try to drown out the pain with relentless chatter so his silence in the face of _My Little Pony: The Movie,_ is concerning.

“What’s going on with you?” he demands, cutting their coy little game of push and shove. “You’re freakishly quiet. It’s weirding me out.”

Wade doesn’t turn away from the television. “I’ve uh, got a mission,” he says after a beat. “In Bali. Undercover. Think it’s gonna be a long one.”

“Oh.”

The long ones suck but he especially hates the undercover ones because that means no texts, no phone calls, nothing for however long it takes to complete.

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. Bright and early. Well, dark and early. I’ll be outta here before the sun’s up.”

“Oh,” he repeats, heart sinking. “Pre-mission sleepover?” he asks hopefully.

Wade shakes his head. “Can’t this time, baby boy. Got some things to take care of.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know… The usual. Packing, throwing out the milk, obtaining weapons that can’t be traced back to me. Non-lethal weapons,” he adds, apparently catching the look on his face. “Don’t worry, I’ll finish your hair before I go.”

“Right.” He slumps further into the couch, no longer enjoying his ‘I was right, you were wrong’ victory pizza. Suffering through My Little Pony is insult to injury. Why couldn’t he have left Wade at negative _two_ robots instead of negative one? At least then—

“HEY!” he sits up all at once. “The bet was 250 _before_ the next explosion and you got that last one after! I—,”

“Shh Petey,” Wade pats at him blindly, “the merponies are my favorite.”

He sinks back into the couch with an unhappy huff. Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate to push the issue. He _won._ He shouldn’t have to watch ponies. But… Wade’s leaving tomorrow and who knows when he’ll see him again.

Wade’s arm slips from the back of the couch and rests across his shoulders, unsubtly trying to pull him against his side. He slips away and slumps against the opposite armrest, putting his feet in Wade’s lap with a grunt instead.

Unfazed, Wade absentmindedly massages them but soon his hands still as he stares, captivated by the movie. The light from the TV plays across his mask, coloring the whites of his eyes as he drinks in the movie he’s seen a million times, all-the-while, Peter’s feet remain held loosely between his hands, slowly warming.

Heartburn settles at the base of his throat like a hot coal. He might finally be at that age where he needs to cut back on the pepperoni.

~*~

_Two Years and Three Months Since The Start_

He crawls in through his living room window to find his apartment untouched from when he was here last. There’s no sack of food in the microwave with a sticky note reminding him to eat. There are no mysterious blood drippings on the linoleum in the kitchen. It doesn’t reek of pesticide following an attempt at battling back the roaches that will always come back so long as there isn’t a collective effort from the complex to get rid of them.

No Wade on the couch playing Animal Crossing and cussing out the cranky villagers.

No Wade rifling through his kitchen cupboards bemoaning the lack of proper cookware.

No Wade.

He sighs and strips off his mask. Here’s to another night with a Noodle Cup, Netflix, and the Obama-shaped water stain on the ceiling for company.

~*~

_Two Years and Four Months Since The Start_

“Peter, how’s your friend?” May asks as she holds out the roasted potatoes for him to take. “Normally, you’d have mentioned him at least six times by now but you’re quiet as a church mouse.”

“Sorry May,” he says, scooping a hearty serving onto his plate before setting the dish aside and passing her the green bean casserole. “I… He’s on a business trip so I haven’t seen him. No reception either so…” He trails off.

She hums sympathetically. “Well you know you can stop by F.E.A.S.T. whenever you like, sweetheart. Everyone loves having you around and I know what you’re like when you get lonely.”

“May,” he whines. “I’m not lonely.”

She hums again, unconvinced.

~*~

_Two Years and Five Months Since The Start_

Aw beans. Another reminder to pay rent slipped under the door. He’s got the money for once, plenty of it with how much Tony’s been paying him for his work in the lab, but his brain has been elsewhere lately. Nothing seems to stick for longer than it takes to start a new task. He scribbles a quick reminder about rent on a sticky note and adds it to the rapidly growing collection on the bathroom mirror. Maybe he should add another one next to his desk too.

Better safe than—

He trips over his own feet as he catches sight of the clock in the kitchen.

How is it already after nine? He swears he sat down to do homework only an hour ago but the clock is showing it’s been over three. He’s gotta get patrolling now if he doesn’t want to be out all night. He promised May he’d stop by F.E.A.S.T. in the morning and help out with things. It’s not how most people would choose to spend their Saturday morning but… it’s not like he has anything better to do except maybe sleep and that hasn’t been coming easy for a while now.

He scrambles into his suit and leaps out into the chill November air. Maybe Wade will be back in time for Thanksgiving. That would be nice. He can harass him into making a pie for him to take to May’s and then they can do their own thing in the evening. Fried chicken and a monster movie marathon sound like the perfect holiday to him.

His stomach growls. Aw beans. He forgot to eat again.

~*~

_Two Years and Six Months Since The Start_

“Good grief. I’m starting to think you’re in love with him.”

Peter snaps out of his brain fog and blinks across the lab table at Tony. “What? Who?”

“You know who,” Tony grumbles. “I thought with him out of the city so long you might come to your senses and ditch his ass but if anything you’re getting worse.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Deadpool.” He shoots him a look like he expects better of him.

Ugh. For a self-proclaimed playboy, he’s such a _dad._ Did marriage do this to him? No, he’s always been like this. At least where Peter is concerned.

“I’m not in love with him,” he mumbles.

Tony could at least have the decency of wearing long-sleeves. It’s not fair that he has to watch while precisely penned messages from Pepper flow onto his skin in between patches of Tony’s messy scrawl. He’s supposed to have that. He’s got the stupid soulmate, just none of the real actual connection that’s supposed to go with the bond. If only Wa—

“You’ve got me fooled. Half the Avengers, too. You’re pining. Admit it.”

“Am not.”

He picks up his soldering gun but then remembers he finished with that and was about to—

Tony snorts. “Sure, kid.”

He bristles, setting aside the soldering gun with more force than he means to. “What do you care anyway? You don’t even like him.”

Tony makes a sound in the back of his throat that isn’t a confirmation but isn’t a rejection of the statement either. “He and I have some similar priorities,” he admits in the face of Peter’s expectant stare. “That’s all,” he says dismissively.

He changes tracks, prattling on about malleability and articulated joints and blah blah blah.

He’s not listening, still stuck on his previous statement. He’s willing to put money on those “similar priorities” being him and him alone. Can he complain though? If it means Tony gets off his ass then… it’s worth it, right?

Assuming Wade ever comes back. It’s been four months—officially the longest he’s been gone in one stretch. He didn’t _leave_ leave, right? He was acting weird that night. What if he’s not coming back? What if—

“You’re killing me, Web-head,” Tony says, exasperated, jarring him from his thoughts once more. “I don’t need to see your face under that mask to feel those sad kicked-puppy eyes from across the room. Forget about the Moron with a Mouth for a second and come geek out with me over this tech Wakanda sent over. I guarantee you’ve never seen anything like it before.”

~*~

_Two Years and Seven Months Since The Start_

The cereal box wobbles on the edge of the table and then tips. Using his spider-like reflexes he snatches the box out of midair before it can hit the ground and cereal bits cascade across the floor, scattering like glass. He sits, staring, box in hand, upside down.

With a profound sigh, he chucks the empty box in the general direction of the trash and uncaps the milk. It’s going to be one of those days, huh? If he was smart he’d cut his losses, crawl back into bed, and call the whole day a wash. Too bad he’s never been all that smart.

He pours the milk and scoops up a large spoonful. The crunch is loud in the silence of his apartment. He burrows further into his over-large hoodie, staring at the wall crunch crunch crunching his way through the bowl.

Has that crack always been there? He didn’t make it… Did he? He’s pretty sure he didn’t. Maybe it’s a sign that the entire building is ready to come down and put him out of his misery.

He’d forgotten what it was like before Wade. He forgot how routine his life was. How quiet. He’d forgotten what it was like to be this lonely.

~*~

_Two Years and Eight Months Since The Start_

“What should we watch tonight, Mr. President? D’you think Wade’ll be mad if we finish Legend of Korra without him?”

“Not mad, just disappointed.”

He nearly knees himself in the face in his hurry to roll off the couch and get to his feet. There he is. Wade. Standing in his bedroom doorway, suited up with his mask in hand like he climbed in through the window. Like it’s a regular day. Like he hasn’t been gone for six months.

“Hey, baby boy.”

“Wade!” He doesn’t leap into his arms and squeeze the life out of him but it’s a near thing. Instead, he settles for leaping over the couch and shoving his shoulder. “Where the hell have you been? I was starting to think you ran away to join the circus.”

He flashes a quick grin but his eyes are distracted. “New York is the circus. Look at your hair!” He threads a hand through it and Peter’s heart squeezes. “I swear we just trimmed it and it’s already all grown out again!”

“That’s because you were gone too long, asshole.” He holds back from hitting him again.

“Aww, did you miss me?”

_Like a limb._

“Miss what? You rearranging my cupboards in the middle of the night?”

Wade laughs. “It’s not my fault you have the organizational skills of a toddler.”

His chest aches hearing that laugh. He gives in and throws his arms around Wade’s waist, clutching him with probably too much strength.

Wade’s breath catches and for an instant he’s stiff and unfamiliar, but then he’s hugging him back just as fiercely. “Aww, you did miss me,” he says, but he misses the mark on teasing and lands somewhere around tender. Surprised. Awed, maybe.

“Six months was too long,” he says, the words coarse in his throat. He doesn’t trust himself with anything further. Anything deeper.

He was alone while Wade was gone. Yes, he had May and somehow Tony, but they couldn’t fill the gap Wade left behind. His apartment suddenly void of Wade’s presence turned into a cold cell. And patrolling… it’s not meant to be fun but it is with Wade. He’s been spoiled these past years. He always enjoys going out on his own when Wade’s busy but _six months_ of patrolling alone after over two years of having a partner to trade quips with and make silly bets and ride the highs and weather the lows?

Without him around, it’s a job. It’s one he’s good at but holding onto the “friendly” part of the title has been a challenge. He knows he’s been less chatty, more efficient and single-minded. The quips are hard to come by and he’s had less patience for petty criminals. Being on his own didn’t use to be this difficult.

It’s hardly the first time Wade’s been gone on a mission but it’s the first time it’s been this long. A week or two, whatever. A couple of months, sure. Three months, fine. But six? _Half a year?_ Never again.

“Okay,” Wade says, voice hushed as he hitches his arms a little tighter. “Okay, baby boy. I hear you. It was too long.”

~*~

Later when they’re sacked out on the couch in front of the TV, Wade puts his arm around his shoulders and he leans into his side and soaks in the warmth of him, filled with so much contentment and relief that he aches with it

“Wade,” he breaks the silence, tone hushed, head on his shoulder. “Did you leave on purpose? You were weird before and then… this is the longest mission you’ve had since we became friends so the timing… I just… I wondered.”

Wade is silent for a long moment before he asks, “Would you hit me if I told you I was giving you an out?”

He rips out from under his arm. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Wade stares up at him, eyes wide and dark, illuminated only by the flashing of the television. “I wish. You just… I’ve been chasing you for so long but I didn’t think I’d ever…” He gestures all around them at Peter’s apartment and their shared things. The game consoles, the DVD collection, their His and Hers key hooks on the wall by the door. “You were yelling at Stark that we were besties and I felt dirty. Like I tricked you. You know, Stockholm syndrome or something.”

Peter stares at him, incredulous. Uncomprehending.

Wade looks away.

“I don’t have Stockholm syndrome, you idiot.”

“And now we know for sure!” Wade bounces back. “Because I gave you space and you still want me around for some rea—,”

“You fucking idiot.” He doesn’t know what to do with the riot of emotions churning in his chest. He wants to kiss him. He wants to _dropkick him out the window._ “Don’t ever disappear on me again. No more six-month missions, got it?”

“Sir, yes sir! Love it when you get all authoritative, Petey.”

He sighs and falls back against Wade’s side, not bothering to cushion the impact. “Just shut up and watch the show.”

Six months. Jerk. What a jerk. Six months. He could kill him.

Wade runs a hand through his hair, humming almost imperceptibly. Wade’s cheek comes to rest against his temple and he closes his eyes, heart constricting painfully. _Six months._ What a jerk.

~*~

The next morning when he wakes up it’s to cramped legs from sleeping on the couch with Wade pretzeled around him, drooling in his hair, and snoring loudly.

“Get up, idiot,” he grumbles, poking at Wade’s side. “You’re gonna give me swimmer’s ear.”

“Five more minutes,” Wade murmurs, curling his arms around him and snuffling as he nuzzles his nose against his neck.

His pulse thunders.

Okay, fine. Five more minutes. At least he’s _here_ to be gross and annoying. At least he’s home.

“Then pancakes,” he insists.

“Mmm, anything for you, baby boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left!! I've got about 7.7k written so if it's consistent with how long these chapters have been then I'm about halfway through it lol Your comments give me life! They're my favorite thing about this fic and I love this fic a lot so there you have it.
> 
> Thank you!  
> I love you  
> Drink, eat, take your meds, wipe a wet paper towel over your face, sniff a leaf or something to remember the world is alive and so are you and that is good


	4. O My Heart

_Two Years and Eleven Months Since The Start_

Arms snake around Peter’s torso and tug him away from his desk.

He grunts unhappily and digs in his heels to keep his chair from rolling, one hand slapping half-heartedly at the hands on his waist while the other attempts to continue scrolling through the article he’s quoting in his physics report.

“Ah-ah Petey. You need rest. I _know_ he looks like shit. Why do you think I’m trying to get him to take a break?”

“Not now,” he mumbles as he scans the article with burning eyes. Finals are in two weeks and he still has three more major projects to finish and then there’s—

The arms tighten and lift him away from his laptop.

Chair spinning in his wake, his abused spine cracks and pops as it’s forced to straighten from its hunch for the first time in hours.

“Waaade,” he whines, grasping for his keyboard as Wade bodily hauls him towards the couch.

“Nope,” Wade chirps. “I let you fix your web-shooters and respond to your emails and chat with your science buddies about your nerd—,”

“They were my project partners for my chemistry final that’s worth half my grade,” he snaps, pinching the sensitive skin of Wade’s tricep in retaliation for the way he tucks him against his chest and falls with a soft _whump_ on the couch.

“The point is, I’ve been here for hours and you haven’t _stopped._ ” Wade turns them so they’re on their sides, his back pressed against Wade’s chest. “We’re supposed to be hanging out. You’ve heard of this little thing called relaxing, right? Maybe taking a night off? Ringing any bells?”

“Never met her.” He shifts so that Wade’s knee is no longer digging painfully into the back of his thigh and Wade takes the opportunity to twine their ankles. “Look, I don’t have time to—,”

“Bullshit. Let something slide.”

He sucks in a forceful breath, a rant on the tip of his tongue, but Wade prods him sharply between the ribs and his breath leaves him in a whoosh.

“I don’t mean blow it off, but you don’t have to be perfect at everything. You need a break now and again even if you seem to think you can run forever on— on…”

“Anxiety and fear of failure?” he fills in scathingly. “Why are we spooning?”

“Pfft we’re not spooning, Petey Pie.”

That’s weird. If they’re not spooning then why is he hyper-aware of Wade’s body pressed all along his back and his arms curled around his chest. Sure it might be more comfortable if his arms weren’t pinned to his sides but it wouldn’t take much strength to break Wade’s grip and— and— Well, he’d rather just stay here for now. Now that his nose isn’t glued to his laptop, he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open and Wade is warm like a heated blanket.

Those are his only reasons for wanting to stay in his arms. Yup. The only ones.

“No comeback?” Wade asks. “Aw beans, I think we intervened too late. He’s fried.”

He sighs and thumps his head against Wade’s chest. “Shut up and tell me about how you think this isn’t spooning.”

“Ooo a challenge! I’ve been wanting to brush up on my interpretive dance sk— Hey! You’re trying to trick me! No way, José. You won’t escape a grapple with ole Deadpool that easy.”

“This isn’t—,” He sighs. He’s too tired to argue semantics. “So what now? We just… lay here?” He hadn’t realized how dark it’d gotten. When he first sat at his desk the sun was reflecting off the rain-soaked parking lot and nearly blinded him whenever he glanced out the window. Now long shadows creep across the floor and blacken the corners while blue light flashes from the muted television.

“I could turn up the TV?”

“Mmm but that would break your grapple,” he murmurs, ceding victory to his heavy eyelids as his dry itchy eyes sing with relief.

“Then I’ll narrate!” he crows, delighted.

Sure without having to look, he allows a small smile that Wade can’t see from his angle. “Pretty sure this constitutes as cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Oh, are we breaking out the five-dollar words? I can extrapolate jargon too.”

That sentence doesn’t work but he doesn’t have the brain to argue it and besides, Wade doesn’t give him the chance. He’s not sure what show they’re watching but according to Wade everyone is some kind of sex worker and they’re all in a polyamorous relationship.

He falls asleep before he finds out what Jess and Wilson name their pet ostrich.

~*~

“It’s four in the morning, Petey. Why are you still awake?”

“It’s four in the morning, Wadey. Why are you in my apartment?” he parrots with all the vitriol he can muster.

He doesn’t turn away from his laptop or remove his fingers from the keys, not that he’s typed a single word in… well, awhile. Time is a human construct. It’s not real. It’s made up. It’s something humans invented to give the world meaning, to measure something vast and nebulous and unquantifiable. Who is he to spit in the face of the universe and dare to presume he can define what it means to be alive?

“Oookay, I’m gonna close this. Watch your little spidey fingies!”

He barely yanks his hands out of the way in time as Wade flips his laptop shut.

“Hey!” He pivots with a screech from his chair and glares. For a reason he can’t be bothered to fathom, Wade is fully decked out in his Deadpool suit, weapons and all. “What the hell do you think you’re—,”

“Ah-ah! No more think! Only sleep.” He whips something out of one of his pouches and nearly hits him in the face with it as he shoves it in front of his nose and swings it like a pendulum. “You’re getting sleeeepy. Veeeeery sleeeeeepy!”

He yanks the gold pocket watch out of Wade’s hand and stares at it uncomprehending in his palm. He’ll never make sense of what Wade keeps in his pouches and why.

“Are you trying to hypnotize me? Why do you even have this?”

“To hypnotize you with, of course!” He chirps and then says more seriously, “You haven’t been taking care of yourself, Petey.”

“What else is new,” he grumbles.

He drops the watch on his desk and runs a hand through his hair. Did he say it’s four in the morning? It’s dark out. In the window, his reflection stares back at him, sallow-skinned with dark circles under his eyes and an unkempt patchy stubble decorating his jaw. Wade’s reflection leans in.

“Bedtime,” he whispers in his ear.

Then his hands are on his shoulders and he’s being forcibly escorted to the bedroom.

“Why’re you all geared up?” he asks instead of resisting. He _is_ tired. And if it’s really four o’clock then he’s got class in five hours.

“Just got back.”

“From where?”

“My mission. That’s why I haven’t been here all week. Good to see you’ve been practicing self-care while I was away. You know—,”

He tunes him out.

He hasn’t been by in a week? He’s been on a mission? Typically, Wade is over more often than not. Typically, he comes home from school and finds him loading his fridge with groceries that he’s adamant are for his personal benefit and therefore aren’t charity, or he’ll be sacked out on the couch still in his suit or rearranging the hall closet so he can fit another blanket in there.

He shouldn’t feel bad for not noticing his absence. He’s been _busy._ Finals start in a few days and he’s still scrambling to finish his project work with a modicum of competence while juggling his duties as Spider-Man and his full-time position as Tony’s lab assistant or intern or whatever he is.

His knees hit the mattress and he tumbles onto the sheets. They smell weird. When was the last time he changed them?

“That’s a good, Petey Pie,” Wade coos. He rips his comforter out from under his legs and covers him with it, tucking it under his chin.

He snuggles into his pillow. He’s still fully dressed in jeans and a flannel but he’s damn comfortable and this way he can go straight to class without worrying about remembering pants.

“Hey Wade,” he mutters, mind already fuzzing with sleep.

“Yes, my darling? My dear? My ickle spidey baby sweet—,”

“I hate your guts.”

Wade snorts and presses a masked kiss to his temple. “Love you too, Petey. Don’t think I’m going to let you sleep through breakfast! No matter how cute you look with your bedhead and your sweet sleepy face! Nutrients are imperative and breakfast is—,”

“Get out of my room, Wade.”

~*~

“I’m here! I’m here!”

Breathless, he squeezes into line, righting the silky red cap on his head with one hand and yanking at the zipper of his gown with the other as they slowly progress single-file towards the auditorium.

“Umm, this isn’t your spot,” the guy behind him says.

“Oh, my bad sorry!” He steps out of line and glances along it for another patch of double-white gowns to split apart with his red. “How embarrassing. We all wore the same thing!”

The guy stares at him, nonplussed.

Oof. Tough crowd.

A short figure in white waves at him from further down the line. Relieved, he hastens over to her. That’s right. Now he remembers the pretty Asian girl he towered over during rehearsal. She was on her phone playing Splatty Spidey the whole time, ironically shielded from discovery by the actual Spidey. She’s almost as good at web-swinging as he is.

“What’s up with that guy?” a voice behind him whispers, as clear to him as if he were standing beside them. “He’s got big mad scientist energy every time I see him.”

“Chemical engineering major. That program breaks people. They’re all like that.”

“Does anybody else smell something burning?”

His hands fly to his cap and make sure it’s still covering the singed spot on the side of his head. The fireball-throwing mutant didn’t go down as easily as he assumed they would. He should have left them for Wade to handle but once again, his hubris got the better of him and now his suit needs some serious TLC and he’s going to have to keep the cap on for any pictures Aunt May wants after all this pomp and circumstance.

“Thought you weren’t going to show,” the Asian girl says as he troops along behind her and tries not to step on her heels when the line stops and starts erratically.

“My aunt would literally kill me if I missed this. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her I wasn’t going to walk and they could mail me the diploma.”

She laughs.

“Quiet!” One of the administrators glares directly at him. “This is a proud ceremony, not social hour.”

~*~

“Oh, Peter.”

“Maaay,” he whines but doesn’t shake her hands off of his cheeks.

Her eyes are shiny with tears as she smiles. “I was so worried you would never go back and finish your degree. I’m so _so_ proud of you. Ben would be proud too.”

His eyes sting. “May,” he says again.

She pats his cheek and finally steps back. Graduates and their loved ones mill around them, chatting and snapping pictures while kids chase each other through the grass, mindless of maintaining the shine in their shoes as they burn off the energy that built up through the long, tedious ceremony.

“Let’s do lunch,” May says. “There’s a bistro my girlfriends and I started going to over on 36th. It’s just down the street from that shop you like. The one with the model kits.”

He hasn’t been to that shop since he was fourteen, pocket bulging with two-years worth of birthday money and scrounged pennies from wherever he could find them but trust May to remember.

“Yeah, we can—,”

There’s a scream and a crash as something whizzes around a building and crashes into a parked car at the end of the street. A figure lurches to their feet, clad in a skin-tight suit with what appears to be aviation goggles on their face.

“What on Earth,” May murmurs as the crowd of graduates crane for a better look.

“Umm,” he says, already backing towards a narrow alley, “actually I—,”

“OLLIE OLLIE OXEN FREE!” A familiar voice sing-songs followed by Deadpool dropping to the sidewalk with a stomach-rolling _crack!_

“What was that?” someone asks.

“Probably his fibula,” he grumbles, eyes laser-focused on Wade’s limp.

_Idiot. Big dumb idiot._

The person in the goggles scrambles away, the bottoms of their boots emitting sparks and occasionally a small burst of energy that lifts them a few inches off the ground before shorting out and leaving them stumbling.

Deadpool rounds a parked car and lifts his arm, shouting, “Tag! You’re it!” as he fires a taser into their back.

They crash to the ground, spasming as Deadpool limps up to them, chattering. “I _told you_ it’s Spidey’s day off. If you wanted a good chase through the city you should have waited until tomorrow to do your little bash and grab. Web-head loves that stuff. Me, I’m more of a predator in the brush kind of guy. You don’t know I’m there until I’ve pounced and then it’s too late.”

He plops down beside them, one leg sticking out awkwardly, and pokes at their boots.

“Rocket boots, huh? I could use some rocket boots.”

Peter narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. If Wade comes to their next patrol with fucking _rocket boots_ he’s going to be so pissed.

“Daww your feet are tiny! No fair!”

Oh thank God.

“Well, that was invigorating,” May says with an amused smile. “Lunch?”

~*~

He can smell the cake from the hallway. As he twists his key in the lock, the soup and sandwiches from the bistro shift to make room for dessert and he pushes into the apartment.

“Shit!”

Wade crashes to the ground at his feet, a step ladder toppling from under him.

“What…”

He blinks, eyes assaulted by an array of colors in his normally minimalistic apartment. Not minimalist in an aesthetic hoity-toity way—moreover a I’m-poor-as-fuck-and-throw-pillows-are-goddamn-expensive-for-no-reason way. Wade must have cleaned out the party store judging by the sheer number of streamers, banners, balloons, and shiny foil cut-outs affixed to every surface. No relief to be found from the onslaught of color.

“You’re early,” Wade accuses, flat on his back, a streak of flour on his maskless forehead and purple streamer draped around him like a boa, tangled in the pouches on his utility belt and around the strings holding on his “Kiss the Crook” apron.

“Uhh…”

“Who barrels through the door like that anyway?” Wade continues, shoving to his feet and yanking the streamer only to become more entangled.

“I smelled cake.”

“Oh shit, the cake!” Streamer streaming behind him, he rushes for the kitchen.

He trails after him, gazing around at the decorations and batting away a few balloons as he goes. “How did you have time for all this?”

Wade was _supposed_ to be patrolling. He promised to keep an eye on the city so nothing would pull him away from Aunt May. He’s still in shock that it worked. Today was the first time in years he’s been able to go out with May and not suddenly remember an urgent task that leads to him abandoning her to don his suit in a scuzzy alleyway. It was nice. She seemed happy.

“Cashed in a favor with Weasel,” Wade says into the oven as he pulls out an unfamiliar round cake pan with his bare hands. “Ouch! Fuck! Hot! He monitored the police scanners so I could get the decorations up between crises.”

Peter flips on the faucet. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

Wade sticks his hands under the spray and they watch as his pink, blistered skin heals until it’s scarred but healthy once more. “And I wish you owned oven mitts but here we are.”

“I don’t?”

Wade shoots him a look as he dries his hands on his apron. “No kitchen towels either. Have you even used your oven for anything besides frozen pizza?”

“Uhh…” He thinks hard. Surely, there’s been something… Not even garlic bread? No?

Wade shakes his head, clicking his tongue as he gingerly slips the cake pan onto a cooling rack that Peter _knows_ isn’t his.

“You didn’t have to do all of this,” he says. “It’s just a degree. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to—,”

“Did so!” Wade counters, hands on his hips. “You worked your ass off for this so, goddamn it, we’re going to celebrate! Besides, you said it was really important to your aunt so I didn’t want anything to mess it up.”

He could kiss him.

He jams his fists in his armpits and to Wade’s boots, says, “She… yeah. It was really good. So… thanks.”

He meets Wade’s eyes and the teasing smile slips from Wade’s lips, the joke he was about to make lost to whatever expression is on his face.

Chest tight and heart pounding, he does the only thing that makes sense with the sudden tension choking the room.

“I uh, bathroom.”

He flees down the hall and slams the door behind him, breathing a sigh of relief. In his agitated state, it takes a moment to register the balloon bouquet on the toilet tank and the red and white streamers framing the mirror and covering the shower curtain.

A breathless laugh bubbles out of him.

“The _toilet,_ Wade?” he shouts.

“I have an _atmosphere_ to maintain,” Wade yells. “I wouldn’t expect a gremlin like you to understand!”

~*~

_3 Years and 2 Months Since The Start_

“No more cake,” Peter begs.

Wade gasps. “You’ve changed. There was a time not long ago you would have—,”

“I’m _thirty,_ not an alien.”

“Same difference. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“You’re older than I am!”

“In body, maybe, but not in spirit.”

“What do you mean _maybe?”_

“I don’t think I’m aging. I’m forever twenty-five, baby boy. You’re a cradle robber.”

“Oh, please! Five years is nothing. Besides, you were, what, thirty-four when we met? Thirty-five? That’s—,”

“I believe we’ve already established I’m forever twenty-five.”

“You’re full of shit,” he says as he stands and stretches. “I’m the birthday boy so that means you have to clean up while I nap.”

He ignores Wade’s indignant squawk and retreats to his room to give in to his imminent food coma. Today tested his limits. He can handle food, that’s never been an issue, even before the spider bite enhanced his metabolism, but today Aunt May made a feast fit for kings as though it could hide the fact that they’re celebrating yet major milestone without Ben. As though they both didn’t independently realize that he’s only a few short years away from surpassing Uncle Ben’s age. That it’s been twice that long since they lost him.

They pretended it was a purely happy celebration but the ghost of Uncle Ben weighed heavily on both of them so to cover up the somber air of the two-person party, he ate more than he normally would.

Afterward, he came home to Wade’s version of a birthday party which… Well, it was more like a funeral. With black decorations and dim lighting they “mourned the loss of his youth” to an orchestral soundtrack and followed it up with a cake-a-thon. With no one around to stop him and incapable of deciding on a single flavor, Wade baked five cakes.

It was more enjoyable than it had any right to be, but now he’s wrung out and liable to explode if he eats another bite so obviously it’s the perfect time for the universe to remind him that he’s at the mercy of its every whim.

No sooner has his face met the pillow, than there’s a knock on the front door.

He groans as Wade cheerily answers it. What’s more important? Keeping his affiliation with Deadpool a secret from whoever is at his door at this time of night? Or staying exactly where he is and not moving for a week?

“Sweetums!” Wade sings out. “Your secret wife is here and she’s out for blood! I wouldn’t blame you if you jumped out the wind— Ow! _She’s vicious, Petey!_ Run for it! I’ll slow her down!”

What the _hell_ is he talking about? Secret wife? What?

He groans into his pillow and then lifts his face and yells back, “I don’t have a wife, Wade!”

Reluctantly, he levers himself off the bed and shuffles for the door. He doesn’t have the energy for this. And _no,_ it has nothing to do with turning thirty.

“Your ex then! Lover? Soulmate? Sexy cousin?”

“What are you—,”

He steps out of his room and forgets to breathe. All of his muscles lock and his brain screeches to a full stop.

“Pretty sure you’re supposed to be scared of me,” Wade is telling none other than Mary Jane Watson.

_MJ?! In New York?!_

MJ _(in his apartment!)_ smirks. Her hair is different. It’s gloriously red as always and her bangs are still choppy but it’s shorter than she used to keep it, barely grazing her shoulders as she tosses it with a practiced flick. “Nice try but I know the truly scary guys have flawless skin and shaped eyebrows.”

“Oh shit,” Wade says, mouth widening into an open-mouthed grin. He cups his hands and bellows, “Vicious _and_ smart, Petey! You better— Oh. Hey, baby boy. You were supposed to go out _your_ window. That’s my bad. I should have been more specific.”

“MJ?” he croaks.

She smiles, bright and beautiful and effortless as always. “Hey Tiger, looks like you hit the jackpot,” she says with a significant glance at Wade that lingers on his biceps.

“I… You… What?”

Her smile dims. “Can we… get a coffee or something?”

“Is everything— Are you okay? Anna?”

Oh fuck, if anything happened to—

“Peter, stop. Aunt Anna’s fine. Everyone’s fine. I was in the city and I thought…” She clenches her fingers once and releases them. She’s _nervous._ “I thought we could catch up.”

“I… Okay,” his mouth says before his brain can decide whether or not this is a good idea. He hasn’t seen MJ since… Since everything.

“Well this is just embarrassing,” Wade says, putting his hands on his hips. “I didn’t pack a single cocktail dress! I suppose I can make do with—,”

“Wade,” he interrupts. He licks his lips. “Just… stay here, okay?”

Wade surveys him seriously from within the shade of his hood. “Okay fine, but you call me if she tries any funny business. I know you’re a _tough guy,”_ he winks twice, “and everything but there’s no shame in—,”

“She knows I’m Spider-Man, Wade.”

“Oh shit?” He looks at MJ again as though in a new light. “Wait,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “is she actually your wife? I was messing around before but if—,”

“She’s not my— We’re not like that. Just… We’ll talk later, alright?”

~*~

His sneaker squeaks against the greasy tile as he bounces his knee restlessly. The red and blue of the sign in the window paints MJ purple and the buzz of the neon fills his brain until it spills out under his skin. Red vinyl squeaks as he shifts, reaching for another napkin to join its brethren in the shredded heap in front of him.

It’s not right.

They shouldn’t be here.

Two should be four. Harry’s elbow should be knocking into him as he gesticulates wildly. MJ should be pressed up against the window so that Gwen doesn’t have to slide across the sticky bench and mess up her skirt.

They should be raucous—joking and laughing and stealing each others’ fries until Stan kicks them out so he can close up.

It shouldn’t be like this.

He takes a breath. “Can we—,”

“Yeah,” MJ says, shoulders loosening from their concrete frame as she pushes away her untouched coffee and slips out the end of the booth.

He hurries to do the same. “I haven’t been here since—,”

“Same. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She tosses a twenty on the table—an obscene amount for two coffees and the fries that never made it to the table.

The bell overhead jingles as he pushes out into the sticky, oppressive heat stubbornly laying over the city in a thick blanket despite the late hour.

~*~

He doesn’t realize where they’re going until MJ passes under the cemetery archway. She turns and looks back at him when his sneakers skid to a stop.

Wasn’t the diner enough? Do they have to do this? Do they have to do this _tonight?_

She clenches her hands and releases. “May said it was raining this morning so you hadn’t seen him yet. I thought…”

Oh.

Ben.

“Uh yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “That’s right. We can… Yeah.”

He passes her, leading the way down a familiar winding cobblestone path. She doesn’t stay behind for long, falling into step beside him as dark leaves flutter overhead and the trees cast long black shadows over the tombstone-lined path.

“Sorry, I assumed,” she says, far too quiet and reserved.

Has it really been ten years since he’s last seen her? They’ve been apart for as long as they were friends. It’s unfathomable.

“No, I… It’s okay. He always had a soft spot for you.”

Things never used to be this awkward with MJ. They were always sure of where they stood with each other—whether that was the heated dislike of their first meeting or the grudging tolerance that eventually shifted into the fierce dedication and devotion that cemented their friend group through all of the turbulence of coming into adulthood.

He hates the hesitance and the pregnant pauses and the missteps. Even when they hated each other, at least they were confident in it and knew how to act and what to say.

They stop and together stare down at the gray stone jutting out of the ground before them in the shadowy night. It’s weathered now. He remembers when it was clean and fresh and horrifying. Now it’s worn and familiar. He’s not sure which is worse.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, sniffing lightly in the silence, hyperaware of MJ at his side, a foreign presence.

She clears her throat and his eyes flick to her as she kneels in the damp grass, tucking her feet under her.

“Hey Uncle Ben,” she says softly, clasping her hands in her lap, “sorry it’s been a while. You know me, always chasing something.” She clears her throat again and ducks her head. “Remember… Remember when you told me I was capable of anything? You said if I kept a level head and focused my drive then I could do anything I set my mind to. I never forgot that but… I think I’ve been pushing the wrong way for a long time now and umm… Finding my way back has been really hard.”

She pulls in a deep breath and tips her chin up, the line of her neck defiant. “But if Pete can get out of his polo shirt phase then I can get through this too.”

He snorts, unable to stop it and MJ grins over her shoulder at him, eyes damp but tears held in check.

“Polo shirts were in,” he tells her.

“Not the way you wore them,” she counters—natural, easy.

He slips his hands from his pockets and joins her in the grass. “Let’s not pretend I can trust your judgment. Maybe you forgot the perm you got Freshman year but—,”

“Don’t go there.”

“You started it.”

They smile at each other and for a moment it’s like the past ten years never happened. MJ never fled to California. He never sat alone in his apartment and let her go without a fight. They never stopped being friends.

Then she blinks and her gaze drops to her lap.

“Remember when you punched Flash?” he asks. “He was being more insufferable than usual and you just snapped.”

“He wouldn’t shut up,” she says, eyes glinting with a familiar fire as she narrows them at him. “He kept insisting that I was getting overly political every time I brought up sexism in Hollywood when it’s _not_ politics. It’s my everyday life. If violence is what gets him to listen then I’ll do what I have to.”

“It was effective.”

“Damn straight.”

He takes a breath and says to his knees. “I’m sorry, MJ. I wish I—,” his voice cracks. “I wish I could—,”

She puts her hand on his knee and says, “I don’t blame you, Pete.”

He takes a breath. “You always say that but—,”

“I mean it this time.”

He meets her eyes and she lifts her chin, her eyes teary and brilliant green.

“It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault. I’m so sorry I ever made you think it was. I’ll keep saying it until you believe it if I have to.”

He laughs wetly and a few tears break free to slip down his cheeks. “There aren’t enough days in the year for that, Em.”

Her lip trembles and then she pulls him against her side in a desperate one-armed hug. “I’m so sorry.”

He laughs and wipes at his cheeks. “What a pair we make.”

“You’re still my best friend,” MJ clenches his shoulder and says fiercely. “You always will be. I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out. You deserve—,”

“Don’t. It’s okay. She was… I get it. We were both pretty fucked up by what happened. You don’t need to apologize. There’s nothing to forgive.”

MJ gives him a look like she doesn’t agree but doesn’t argue.

He gets the feeling she’s going to keep apologizing until she feels it’s enough, regardless of what he says.

“Have you visited Harry?” his mouth asks before his brain has even formed the question.

She drops her gaze and shakes her head. “Figured I should see you first and then maybe we could—,”

“No,” he says.

She looks up at him, surprised.

“I can’t,” he says. Not after last time. The rage and pain in Harry’s eyes will torment him for the rest of his life. “They blacklisted me. I’m… I’m detrimental to his healing and mental health.”

MJ purses her lips but instead of fighting him, she nods even though he can see that she doesn’t accept that.

“Have you watched any of my movies?” she asks abruptly.

“Uh, no,” he admits and then hurries to add, “but I have them! I just… You know, time and…” He probably doesn’t need to explain to her how much it hurt to see her but not have her friendship anymore.

“All of them?” she asks, lips slowly curling into a sly grin.

He narrows his eyes. “Maybe.”

Yes, he absolutely definitely has every single movie MJ has ever been in, even the one where she’s The Other Woman without any speaking lines. But something about the look on her face makes him reluctant to admit it.

“Movie night?” she asks.

He rolls his eyes. The thing about watching movies with MJ is that you aren’t really watching the movie. The movie is playing while she narrates the behind-the-scenes shenanigans and factoids that never make it to IMDb. She’s the worst about her films—ceaseless in the flow of information.

He has to admit though, it tends to be more entertaining than the movie itself.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Your boy toy is invited too,” she says, getting to her feet and dusting off her knees.

“He is _not_ my boy toy.”

“Mmhmm.”

~*~

“This scene here,” MJ says, leaning forward on the couch, her forgotten forkful of cake hovering precariously over the carpet, “he wasn’t meant to have those gummy bears. He kept sneaking things like that onset and eventually they sewed all of his pockets shut to get him to stop.”

“Is he single?” Wade asks through a mouthful of cake.

“He’s a republican.”

“Bleck, never mind.” Wade slumps, his head falling onto his shoulder as he pouts and crams another forkful of cake into his mouth.

He flicks a crumb from his shoulder into Wade’s face and Wade retaliates by trying to stick a fingerful of frosting up his nose.

He cranes away. “Cut it out or I’ll web your hands to the cushion.”

“Oh because that worked so well last time,” Wade says, rolling his eyes. He sucks his finger clean.

Point. He only succeeded in giving Wade a weapon and then had to suffer him wailing on him with the cushion until he could get the dissolving agent on his hands. The cushion is forever stained and it’s _not_ a good look.

“So how did you two meet?” MJ asks, finally eating her bite of cake as she eyes them with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“I fell for him the moment I saw him,” Wade announces without hesitation, like it’s a speech he’s practiced a thousand times. “Plummeted so hard and fast I blacked out and when I came to I was at his feet. I’ve been worshiping here ever since.”

“He fell off a building,” he says dryly.

MJ barks a laugh. “Cute.” To Wade, she asks, “Why New York? You’re Canadian, right?”

Trust MJ to do her research. He probably should have guessed this impromptu movie night would be just as much about vetting Wade as it is catching up.

“Yep! All these American writers seem to like to forget that though.”

MJ shoots him a confused glance but all he can do is shrug. He stopped questioning Wade a long time ago. Probably around the time he asked him about his expressive mask and pouches that defy the laws of physics and got a headache-inducing jumble about comic book logic and writers who think it’s funny that he breaks the 4th wall followed by a long-winded think piece on the differences between being a comic book character versus a fanfiction character, which he preferred, and why.

Yeah, that’s when he stopped asking.

“Why _did_ you come to New York?” he asks instead. “You never actually told me.”

Wade stares at him. “You, dummy.”

“What?”

“I wanted you to mentor me on how to be a good guy! And also see that famous ass in action. Did _not_ disappoint, by the way. That first night was magical. The way you beat up those badies? The view when you webbed up out of the alley with all of the tacos? And again when you ditched me on the roof after referencing Oliver and Company? Oh man, I was a goner.”

He ignores all the stuff about his butt. “What were you going to do if I turned you down?”

“Cry to the Avengers,” he replies without missing a beat. “Beg. Whatever it took.”

That’s… strange. That’s not how he remembers their initial meet-ups at all. He didn’t clock any desperation to change his stripes coming from Wade. He didn’t catch even a whiff that he was looking to turn over a new leaf. In fact, it took him several months to figure out that their team-ups weren’t just a passing fancy for Wade and even then he still half-expected him to vanish without a backward glance at any given moment. It wasn’t until after the first time Wade died and forced a conversation about why he was avoiding him that he accepted he’d be sticking around.

“Why? What changed?”

“I…” Wade pauses for the first time looking hesitant. “I… I figured I’ve got the time, might as well try something new. Forever’s a long time to do the same shit over and over. And here we are.”

Forever? It’s… Wade’s going to live _forever?_ He never thought about that. Wade stopped aging after Weapon X activated his healing factor but… forever? Someday, Wade is going to outlive him. And keep living. Forever. He doesn’t like that thought. He doesn’t like it one bit. He doesn’t want him to be alone.

“Gotta number two!” Wade shouts, jumping up and jarring him from his thoughts.

Bewildered, he watches him hightail it to the bathroom. Sugar does tend to move through him pretty quickly but that seemed an awful lot like he was running away.

As soon as the door shuts behind him MJ pivots on her cushion and says, “You know he’s in love with you, right?”

His heart palpitates. He can’t talk about this.

He scoffs. “He’s infatuated with Spider-Man. It’s not… It’s nothing to do with _me.”_

MJ stares at him. “You don’t believe that.”

His shoulders slump. “Maybe it has a little to do with me,” he admits.

“He’s in love with you,” she insists.

“MJ,” he pleads, “can we not? He doesn’t have a soulmate.”

MJ’s eyes go wide. “Holy crap, you love him too. Peter Parker!”

“Shh! That’s not— I don’t— We’re _friends._ That’s it. Best friends, but just friends. That’s all we can ever be.”

“Good to know some things never change. You’re still a glutton for punishment.”

He doesn’t have an argument for that.

“You’re an idiot,” she continues. “You both are.”

He bristles. “What does it even matter? He’s Deadpool and I’m Peter Parker. I can’t… Even without the soulmate thing, it’s not like we could ever be together. We can’t even go to the bodega together without risking someone finding out I’m Spider-Man.”

MJ sits back with a frown, tapping her fork lightly against her clean plate. “Give me two days.”

“Two days for _what?”_

“You’ll see. I’ve got an idea.”

“Don’t do anything reckless.”

She raises her eyebrows and treats him to a flat stare. “Thanks for the pro tip, kettle.”

~*~

“You’ll call me if you need anything.”

It’s not a question but he nods anyway. “Are you going to fly across the country to buy milk when I run out?” he jokes.

“I’m staying, idiot. In New York.”

She… what?

“You are? For good?”

“For good,” she confirms. Her expression softens. “I missed you, Pete.”

“I missed you too,” he whispers. He licks his lips. “Are you sure you should? I mean, I’m still—,”

“Don’t.”

“But—,”

“It’s not going to happen again, Peter,” she snaps. “So just… stop. Don’t do that.”

He wants to stop. He does. But…

“I can’t lose anyone else, MJ. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”

“You _won’t._ I’m not that easy to get rid of, Tiger,” she says pulling up to her full height and squaring her shoulders. “Besides, you’ve got a partner now and you’re chummy with the Avengers. You’ve got _connections._ People who can help when things get… It’s not the same as it was back then. You’ve made sure of it. I’m proud of you, Pete.”

He shakes his head. “How do you know all of that?”

MJ snorts and shoots him a look. “You think I haven’t been keeping tabs same as you?” She gestures at his DVD collection. “You had me worried for a while when you picked up a mercenary sidekick but…” she glances at the closed door behind which he is 99% sure Wade is eavesdropping. “He’s more than that.”

Again, not a question.

“Call me,” she orders, gaze piercing. “I want weekly coffee dates if nothing else. Think you can swing that, Mr. Vigilante? Or do I need to enlist your boy toy for backup?”

“No, I can— Yeah, I can do that.”

“You better or I’ll come storm the castle again.”

“I expect nothing less.”

“Love you, Pete.”

“Love you too, Em.”

She leaves and he stands and stares at the closed door until Wade pops out of the bedroom and drapes his arm around his shoulders.

“You sure she’s not an ex?” He asks after a beat when he doesn’t shrug him off. “You guys seem—,”

“Gwen was her soulmate.”

Wade is silent for a long moment. “Uh, who? You said that with a lot of gravity like I’m supposed to know who that is.”

“Are you serious?” he asks. “She was my platonic Vanessa! Don’t you remember—,”

“Oh! Gwanda! Of course I remember _Gwanda!”_

He puts his face in his hands. “Her name is— was Gwen.”

“No, I distinctly remember you said _Gwanda_ because I remember thinking that was such a unique and interesting—,”

“I _lied,_ okay! It’s Gwen. I was…” He takes a steadying breath and fists his hands to stop them from shaking. “I was supposed to save her but… Everything that happened, happened because of me.”

He’s had plenty of time to think it over. Everything that went wrong stemmed from him not telling Harry he’s Spider-Man. If he had told him, things could have gone different. Harry wouldn’t have turned to drugs because he wouldn’t have felt alienated from their group. He might have told them about Norman’s erratic behavior. He wouldn’t have injected himself with the faulty serum.

Harry could have _helped._

Gwen might have _lived._

MJ wouldn’t have spent the past decade resenting and avoiding him.

Everything that went wrong, went wrong because of him and his secrets.

“Sounds like bullshit, Petey-O,” Wade says, pulling him from his thoughts. “I know a thing or two about self-destructive spiraling and it’s time for you to pull out of it. Heh. Geddit? Pull out? It’s funny because it’s about wieners.”

He steps out from under his arm and kicks the nest of blankets where they all slept into the corner. “Thanks for the pep talk, Wade. You should head home. I’m going back to sleep.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Yeah, so? Are naps illegal on S—,”

“Don’t you have lunch with your aunt in an hour?”

He groans. He can never catch a break.

~*~

Two days later, he’s listening to Jameson rant and nearly plummets to the pavement when he hears his name. _His_ name. Not Spider-Man.

“—reliable source that Spider-Man’s murder-happy side-kick, _Deadpool,_ has developed an infatuation with Daily Bugle former photographer _Peter Parker._ Long-time supporters of the Bugle may recognize the name from the byline on many of our photographs of the web-crawling menace. Over the past several years, he has established a professional rapport with the webbed-terror so it’s not a leap to assume that Spider-Man is responsible for drawing the mercenary’s attention to our hapless photographer.

“Parker, if you’re listening—of course he’s listening! He’s been a supporter of the Bugle since he was a schoolboy! Parker, stay strong and know that your friends at the Bugle are thinking of you in this time of stress and fear. Don’t be a hero, kid. Call the police. Our fine friends in blue may have their faults but they can keep you safe. Even from crazy mutant mercenaries.”

He sits down heavily, legs dangling on either side of the street lamp as cars jerkily stop and start below.

What in the fresh hell? How would Jameson even…

A slow smile tugs his lips and he laughs, swinging his feet.

“MJ, you mad genius.”

~*~

_3 Years and 3 Months Since The Start_

“MJ stopped by the other day,” Aunt May says with a pointed look that he doesn’t bother trying to decipher. “These days she visits more often than my own nephew.”

“She does?”

May hums. “She needs someone who understands.”

His heart sinks to his toes. “I don’t know how she can stand to even look at me, May. I… It’s my fault that Gwen—,”

May shoots him a sharp look. “I don’t believe that for a second, Peter Benjamin Parker. You’ve said that for years, but I just don’t see it.”

He bites his tongue. He always says too much. He can’t tell her but he can’t look her in the eyes and lie either.

She sighs. “When I lost your Uncle Ben—,”

“I _know._ It was the worse day of your life. I don’t see how that’s supposed to—,”

“Peter.”

He slumps. “Sorry, Aunt May.”

“As I was saying, it was the worst day of my life. How many days have I lived since then?”

“What?”

“That was the _worst day of my life,”_ she repeats emphatically. “The very worst. No day I’ve had since has been as bad as that one. Life didn’t stop being worth living because the worst happened.” She regards him for a moment and says, “For someone who scoffs at the idea of soulmates you put a lot of stock in that bond. There are other bonds, Peter. Soulmates aren’t the only thing that makes life worthwhile. Happiness can be found without a soulmate. For me, for Mary Jane,” she pauses, watching him with a sharp stare, “and for you.”

He groans. “We’re not like that, May.”

“Mmhmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Regardless, he makes you happy. When do I get to meet him? How much longer do I have to watch the way you smile when you talk about him before I get to meet the man that brings you such happiness?”

His face is on fire. Has he been that transparent? Oh fuck, this _cannot_ happen. May will have him made in an instant. She knows him far _far_ too well.

“I uh… he’s kinda… he has a skin condition?”

May raises her eyebrows and presses her lips into a hard line. “And you believe this would influence my opinion of him?”

“What? No, no, no! It’s… he’s self-conscious about it. He doesn’t like meeting new people because of it.”

“He told you he doesn’t want to meet me?”

Peter rubs the back of his neck. “I… no? I can… I’ll talk to him about it.”

He’s such a pushover.

May nods firmly. “You do that. I’ll have dinner ready at six next Sunday.”

Dinner? They normally meet for a casual lunch. But dinner… Dinner is a different beast.

“Right. Okay.”

Shit. He’s so so screwed.

~*~

“Wade?” he calls out, locking the door behind him. “Uh, so feel free to say no—,” _please please please say no—,_ “but Aunt May was thinking, you know…” he pokes his head into the kitchen and finds it empty. Huh, weird. Maybe he’s in the bedroom? “Maybe it would be nice if you could come with me next week? To dinner? You absolutely don’t—,”

He stops in the doorway of his bedroom.

It’s empty. Wade’s not here.

 _Duh, idiot._ He has his own apartment and his own agenda. Stupid. Stupid to assume he’d be here waiting around for him to come home. Stupid to act like he has no life outside of him and his schedule. Idiot.

He stands in the doorway.

Now what? Aunt May always feeds him well, so he isn’t hungry. His days of studying and homework are behind him and he’s not due at the lab with Tony until nine tomorrow morning. It’s only four o’clock.

He looks at the TV but it doesn’t hold any appeal to him. What’s he supposed to do here by himself? He supposes he could see if MJ wants to do something, but they just got breakfast together yesterday and their renewed friendship is still shaky. He doesn’t want to smother her. He could just call Wade and see what he’s doing but he already worries that he monopolizes too much of his time. He doesn’t want to seem needy.

Well, there’s only one thing left then. He ducks into the bedroom and pulls his suit out of the closet. He’s been meaning to find time to test out some new gadgets but it looks like time found him instead.

~*~

Pigeons. Frickin’ pigeons. They’re everywhere all the time. If they’re not stealing his pizza they’re flying in his face or pooping on his stuff. Maybe that’s his fault for leaving his things on random rooftops but _still._ He feels it shouldn’t be too much to ask to come back to his bag and find it clean and not slathered in bird crap.

A footstep scrapes the roof behind him and he fights not to flinch. There’s only one person who can sneak up on him up here without setting off his Spidey sense.

“‘Pool,” he says lest Wade get any ideas about surprising him.

“Another one?” Wade asks, plopping down to sit beside him crossed-legged. He reaches out and scritches at a white splotch on his ruined backpack. It flakes away, leaving a dusty white blotch behind, soaked into the fabric and dried in a permanent stain.

He would know. He’s given up trying to wash the damn things.

“You should start a collection,” Wade says. “We could charge admission like an art gallery. I bet we’d get enough to fund all of your replacement bags. All sorts of stuffy artsy-fartsy types would pay to get in. We just gotta title it right. Like, _‘Natural Enemies: Spider vs. Pigeon’._ Or umm, _‘The Crap-tastic Life of Spider-Man’._ No, wait! _‘Poop! A Spider-Man Collection’._ Shit, it’s perfect.”

“That makes it sound like it’s my poop on display.”

“Well, _yeah._ How else are we supposed to get people in the door? You think they’re going to come just to look at bird crap? They can see that any ole time just by walking outside, Webby-kins. This is why you’re not allowed to do your own marketing.”

“…right. Sure.”

Wade swivels to face him and leans in close, their masks nearly touching. “You’re weirdly quiet today. What’s going on with you? Is it May?”

His heart skips and he presses a hand over Wade’s face shoving him back. “May’s fine. It’s…” _Invite him! Invite him! Do it, coward!_ “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

_Coward._

“Uh huh,” Wade says, not even pretending to believe him. “You wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Race you back to your place! Loser has to give the winner a foot massage.”

Wade leaps off the roof and he scrambles to follow. No way is he letting him win. He would _kill_ for a foot massage and Wade’s feet smell awful after a day wrapped in leather.

~*~

He’s pacing when he hears Wade crawling in through his bedroom window. Dinner is _tomorrow_ and he still hasn’t extended the invite. Aunt May is fully expecting him to be there because he hasn’t told her that he’s not coming and any reasonable person would have said something by now. Oh, he’s an idiot. What if Wade says no? What if he says _yes?_ What if they don’t get along? What if Aunt May only sees the obnoxious idiot on the surface and none of the facets underneath?

Gah! He needs to stop worrying himself in circles and just ask already. Get it over with. Set the ball in motion and let it roll where it rolls.

Grasping hold of this newfound determination, he drops from the ceiling in front of Wade as he steps out of his room. “Wade, I need to— Stop screaming.”

Wade slumps against the door frame, clutching his chest dramatically and wheezing. “Holy shit, Petey. You scared the _bajeezus_ out of me. You’re lucky I don’t age or that little maneuver would have cost me decades.”

“Shut up, I gotta ask you something.” Oh fuck. Oh shit. He can’t do this.

Wade stares up at him, naked eyebrow cocked expectantly. “Just spit it out. You’ve been acting weird all week. Unless… Do I need to lock us in a closet?”

“I could break out of a closet.”

“Sure, but what if it’s not _your_ closet, hmm? Would you willfully smash up someone else’s property? I don’t think so, Perry. Social convention traps us all in the end.”

He crosses his arms. “Have you been watching Phineas and Ferb without me?”

“A man needs private time, Peetthew. You don’t own me.”

“I know I— What did you just call me?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wade says, finally straightening up and waving away his question with a flick of his wrist. “I’m still workshopping it. Now ask me the thing so we can get on with our lives. Are you proposing? Was scaring me half-to-death a tactic to weaken my resolve and get me to say yes without thinking about it? I’ll have you know I’m a classy broad and I won’t say yes to just any Tom, Dick, or Harry who drops from the ceiling and demands my hand, even if he does have the greatest ass this city can off—,”

“You’re so _fucking_ annoying. Will you come to dinner with me tomorrow?”

Wade’s jaw snaps shut so hard and fast he’s pretty sure he hears a tooth crack. He stares at him, eyes wide and face blank with shock.

Wait. Wait wait. Oh shit. Oh _shit._

“Not like— Aunt May wants to meet you!” he sputters. “She asked me to invite you to dinner because she— Well, I guess I talk about you a lot and she said— It doesn’t matter what she said. Will you come to dinner and meet her? Please?”

Wade’s jaw is hanging open now but his expression is no longer blanked. Slowly, a smirk tugs the corners of his lips and mischief sparks in his eyes.

“You’ve been talking me up, Petey?” he asks in a low tone, shifting closer.

He skitters back. _“No,”_ he says. “If anything I’ve been _complaining,_ but she wants to meet you so… Will you come?”

A wicked grin rips across Wade’s face and he knows what he’s going to say before he can even form the words.

“Please for the love of God, keep it PG13. This is my aunt, okay?”

Wade huffs unhappily and crosses his arms over his chest. “This is just like when Fox sewed my mouth shut to protect their precious PG13 rating. Not that I blame them, I guess. Wolvie was there and we all know how I get when he’s around.”

“Wade, Wade, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please just answer the fucking question before I throw myself out the window.”

“Aww, we wouldn’t want—,”

“Wade!”

“Yes! Okay? Holy shit, of course I’ll come meet your aunt, Webs.”

“Are you sure you’re not going to freak out and bail?”

“What the hell is there to freak out about? Everything’s going to be just peachy.”

~*~

“What’s wrong with my outfit?” Wade asks, sticking out his butt which is hugged nicely by the red leather of his Deadpool suit.

“She’s supposed to be meeting _you,_ Wade. Not Deadpool!”

Wade stills. “What? You mean no mask?”

“Yeah, Wade. No mask! Why the fuck would you think I’d tell my Aunt I’m friends with a mercenary?!”

“Former mercenary,” Wade mumbles. He pauses. “You really don’t want me to wear my mask?” he asks, voice small.

“Oh my God, we can’t do this.” He resumes his frantic pacing at the foot of the bed and yanks his hand through his hair, forgetting about the gel. “What was I thinking? I should just tell her we’re sick. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

“Petey, I…” Wade trails off. “Why would she need to see my face? I thought we were doing dinner. Doesn’t she know one glance at this nasty thing will kill her appetite?”

He turns on him, jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest. “We can’t both be freaking out! You said you wouldn’t freak out!”

“Well, I didn’t realize how stupid your plan was! My face, Peter? My _face?”_

“There’s nothing wrong with your face, Wade!”

“Then why are you freaking out?!”

“Because you’re the two most important people in my life and if you don’t get along then— Then— Then I don’t know!” he says, throwing up his arms. “I _don’t know._ I don’t know!”

“Of course we’re not going to get along!” Wade bellows, ripping off his mask and throwing it to the floor. “Have you _met_ me? I’m annoying and disgusting and unpleasant and _rude_ and—,”

“Shut up!”

“—perverse and loud and—,”

“Dammit, Wade!” He grabs his face between his palms, gentling his touch when Wade’s eyes widen and he goes quiet, staring. The sudden silence rings around them, broken only by the blood rushing in his ears. “You’re my best friend,” he blurts.

Wade’s gaze darts down to his lips and then back to his eyes. He licks his lips and says, voice rough, “You’re mine too, baby boy.”

_Kiss him! He’s right there! Just do it already!_

“And I love you.” His heart is thundering like a million stampeding Hulks and _God, he wants to kiss him so bad._

“I love you too,” Wade breathes.

Sometimes he thinks the universe made a mistake. How could anyone be a better match for him than Wade? He’s the only person he can share his full self with—both Peter Parker _and_ Spider-Man. Wade _gets_ him. The ugliness that rises up within him is met with understanding. His trauma is accepted without judgment. He makes him laugh.

But he has a soulmate and Wade doesn’t.

“So…” He licks his lips. “So know it’s out of love when I tell you you’re being a fucking idiot. We both are. She’s going to adore you, face and all. I promise.”

~*~

He and Wade sit side-by-side at the old rickety and the feast laden upon it. Across from them, Aunt May sits apparently unperturbed by their awkward stilted conversation and stiff posture.

“You don’t live together?” she asks, genuinely surprised.

“Well… no.”

“Why not? Two bachelors in New York City making two rent payments? Be logical, Peter.”

“I… I don’t know,” he says, not looking at Wade. Now that she’s said it, it seems like the most obvious thing in the world. Why _don’t_ they live together? Wade is already over all the time. Wade does more grocery shopping for him than he does for himself—randomly stocking his fridge and then coming over and cooking throughout the week. Why _are_ they paying for two apartments when they could reasonably live in one?

She hums to herself and twirls her fork in her butternut squash spaghetti. He can practically hear her plotting. Quietly, he resigns himself to being spammed with apartment listings for the foreseeable future.

The clink of silverware dominates the conversation. He’s never felt this uncomfortable in his childhood home. This was a mistake. Wade is hardly eating, hiding in the hood of his sweater—their compromise to get him out the door—and his mind is blank. He can’t think of a single thing to say to break the ice.

“Petey’s afraid of commitment,” Wade blurts.

He chokes and nearly spits his mouthful onto his plate.

May sets aside her fork, gazing at Wade with interest, eyes twinkling under the yellow lights. “Is that so?” she asks. “And what is it he’s afraid of committing to?”

“People.”

“Wade!” he chokes out, tears building in his eyes as his esophagus rebels against the sudden intrusion of noodles when it expected air.

“People,” Aunt May muses, narrowing her eyes thoughtfully. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“He over-commits. He sets impossible standards and then blames himself whenever something bad happens,” Wade responds without missing a beat. “He thinks he should be able to protect everyone and when he can’t, he spirals.”

Aunt May smiles. “So what makes you different?”

Wade falters. “What?”

“Why hasn’t he kept you at arm’s length like everyone else?” she asks, picking up her fork and using it to pick apart a green bean. “What makes you different?”

“He tried but I wouldn’t let him. I don’t need protecting,” he says. “I can’t die.”

 _“Wade,”_ he repeats.

Wade shakes his head without looking away from Aunt May. “She already knows, baby boy.”

He whips around to look at Aunt May and finds her appraising Wade with a satisfied smile.

“What gave me away?” she asks. “I thought I was behaving perfectly normally.”

 _“Too_ normal,” Wade says, pointing his fork for emphasis. “You didn’t even blink at my scars.”

“Peter told me about them.”

“Petey’s a weirdo and is way too accepting of this fucked up face. There’s no way you would’ve been prepared for all this based on whatever he told you. You looked me up.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your face, Wade.”

They both ignore him.

“I did,” Aunt May confirms, tipping up her chin.

“Aunt May!” he cries, irrationally offended.

She shoots him a stare over the top of her glasses. “Do you think I don’t watch the news, Peter? It’s been all over every station that the mercenary Deadpool has been stalking you. What I don’t understand is, if this is a recent development, why have I been hearing from you about your friend Wade for years now?”

He opens his mouth only to close it again. He was so caught up in the euphoria of a world where he could be around Deadpool as Peter Parker without worrying about exposing his identity as Spider-Man that he completely forgot to factor in what his only remaining relative would think about him being courted by Deadpool.

“I… I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think—,”

“I’m not expecting an apology,” she tells him kindly. “Only an explanation.”

“It’s… I don’t… We’re friends. He’s not a killer, I swear.”

“How can you be so sure?” she asks conversationally. She sips her water, eyebrows raised.

He opens and closes his mouth, glancing at Wade only to find him looking back, equally lost.

“I trust him,” he says all at once. He turns back to Aunt May. “I can’t explain why, but I do. Completely. If I didn’t he wouldn’t be here.”

She smiles. “I know that. Wade’s right. You’re very protective. To a fault at times,” she muses. She shakes her head. “Enough of this shop talk. We were talking about apartments. I can shake down some of my connections at F.E.A.S.T. and see what’s available on short notice. Peter, your place isn’t suitable for two single men and Wade, not to offend, but your current residence is too well-known and I wouldn’t be comfortable with Peter living there.”

His brain is nothing but white noise. What. Is. _Happening?_

“Umm, none taken, Mrs. Parker,” Wade says haltingly. “But… But what about all of the horrible things I’ve done? You’re just… okay with that?”

“Of course not. But I believe in change—growing and learning from mistakes. Putting in the work to be a better person than you were the day before. That’s why I started F.E.A.S.T. I’d be a hypocrite to turn you away based on your past rather than where you are now and who you’re working to be.”

“But… But I’m not a recovering drug addict down on my luck. I’ve killed people in horrible ways and I had _fun_ doing it.”

“Wade!”

Aunt May waves him off. “I know,” she says. “The things I read about you turn my stomach and I won’t lie and say I don’t have a hard time believing you’ve completely reformed, but the fact remains that you wouldn’t be in this house right now if Peter had even an inkling of a doubt in you. As we’ve agreed, he’s very protective and I trust his judgment. He seems to have a sixth sense about these kinds of things that’s come in handy more than a few times. If he trusts you then so do I.”

Wade sits back in his chair. Struck silent in a way he so rarely is.

“Hold on, was this a test?” Peter asks. “You knew if I refused to bring Wade to meet you then that would mean he’s dangerous.”

Aunt May smiles. “Something like that. You can be reckless with your safety but never with mine.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’ve gotten devious in your old age, May Parker.”

She laughs, throwing her head back. “Oh sweetheart, I’ve always been like this. What do you think caught your uncle’s attention? Parker men have always been dense concerning matters of the heart.”

“Preach it sister,” Wade chimes in.

Peter glares at him.

“What? I still have to break into your apartment to get you to hang out with me.”

“That’s because you’re _annoying.”_

Aunt May clears her throat. “Speaking of apartments,” she reminds them.

“Right!” Wade perks up in a way that makes unease churn in his stomach. “I’ve already been looking and I found—,”

“Wait, what?”

“Shhh Peachie Pie, the grown-ups are talking.”

“No. No, I’m putting my foot down on Peachie Pie. You can’t call me that.”

“Aww what a waste of perfectly good pie.”

“Some days I don’t know how I keep myself from strangling you.”

Wade gasps, smiling like a shark. “In front of your aunt, Peter? Have some decorum you ruffian.”

“Perhaps we can move to the sitting room,” Aunt May interjects, “and you can show me what you’ve found, dear. Peter, would you clear the table please?”

“What? But… _May,”_ he whines.

She raises her eyebrows expectantly but he can tell she’s having a great time.

“You guys are so mean. This was a mistake.”

Aunt May hums and stands from her chair and Wade scrambles after her, digging his phone out of his pocket as he goes and already rambling as they exit the dining room.

“It’s not the swankiest place but it’s decent enough. It’s a good neighborhood but still in the city proper to make it easier for Peter’s—,” he cuts off abruptly. “For his, uhh…”

“His photography,” Aunt May interjects. “I understand. He has always enjoyed being in the hub of things.”

“…Right, yeah exactly.

Big mistake.

~*~

Later, after the photo albums have been exhausted and Wade has excused himself to use the bathroom but is definitely snooping through his old bedroom if the faint giggling carrying through the vents is any indication, May says, “You love him.”

Like it’s a fact.

Indisputable.

Inarguable.

Correct.

_You love him._

“I… he’s my best friend.”

“You know that’s not what I mean. He adores you. Why haven’t you made a move?”

Heat floods his face until he’s sure he’s bright red. “I… Aunt May.”

“Don’t ‘Aunt May’ me. Why haven’t you? You suit each other. He makes you happy.”

“I have a soulmate. Wade doesn’t.”

May stares at him expectantly, eyebrows lifted so high they disappear behind the graying fringe of her bangs. When he doesn’t offer anything else she says, “That’s it? That’s the only reason? Peter.”

“I _can’t,_ May!” he exclaims. She shoots him a sharp look. He lowers his voice and repeats, “I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. What if I meet my soulmate someday? Would I walk out on Wade to be with them? I can’t do that to him. He’s my _best friend._ I won’t… I won’t string him along like that. I won’t risk him.”

May observes him in quiet consideration for a long moment before she sighs and gets to her feet, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll pack up some leftovers for you both. I expect the Tupperware back. I’m not made of the stuff you know.”

“Thanks, May,” he says, throat tight.

She stops in the doorway to the kitchen and turns to face him. “He accepts you? All the parts of you?”

His breath catches in his throat and he tries not to let the panic show. Sometimes May says stuff like this and he’s _sure_ she knows. It’s too uncanny. What reason would she have to ask such a question unless she’s asking if Wade knows and accepts that he’s Spider-Man? But then she’ll go right back to being oblivious. It gets him all twisted up thinking about it. What if she knows? What if she resents him for not telling her? What if she resents him for all the lies?

“Yeah,” he says after too long. “He does.”

She nods sharply. “And he’s good? A good man? Good to you?”

He softens. “Yeah. He hasn’t figured it out yet, but he’s good.”

“Okay. Give me a moment to get those leftovers.”

“Thanks, Aunt May.”

~*~

_3 years and 7 Months Since The Start_

Who moves in January? They do. Because they’re idiots. It’s a whopping two degrees out and they’re idiots.

“Why?” Wade asks. The mattress makes a crinkling plastic sound under his finger as he repeatedly pokes the patched square.

“There’s a spring sticking out and I was out of duct tape so I used packing tape and a piece of cardboard to keep it from cutting me every time I get in bed.”

Wade nods. “That makes sense.” He stops. “Wait, no it doesn’t. Why are we keeping this garbage? I’m buying you a new mattress.”

“Wha— Wade!” He scrambles to catch the mattress before it flips over the stoop’s railing in Wade’s sudden absence. “We can’t just leave this here! Get back here and help me!”

~*~

Their new apartment is far larger that his old one, but even with the added square footage and his meager belongings, he doesn’t see how it could possibly be enough.

“This is the third box labeled ‘T _oys’_ that I’ve carried up here,” he gripes, dropping the box atop a stack as Wade splits off to take his boxes into the kitchen. It’s not very big but it’s got a functioning dishwasher so that fulfills all of his requirements and Wade said he can make-do with the cupboard space. “What do you even have in these?”

“What do you think, Petey?”

“Oh gross.” He takes a full step away from the box.

Wade emerges from the kitchen with a smirk. “Mind out of the gutter! Let’s see who’s in here.” He tears the tape off the box and pulls open the flaps. “Oh perfect. Meet Lil Gunslinger!”

He reaches into the box and pulls out a rubber duck wearing a teeny red bow tie. It’s ordinary in every way except that Wade, a grown man, owns it.

And named it Lil Gunslinger.

He peers into the box, more curious than ever to see how Wade could _possibly_ have so many toys. It’s full mostly of plushies and other odds and ends. He’s pretty sure he spots the full cast from My Little Pony as well as Finn and Jake from Adventure Time. Most conspicuous though is the worn and faded Spider-Man plushie.

He opens his mouth to comment on it but then decides he’d rather not know.

“Why do you have so many crayons?”

“I _like_ crayons.”

“Huh. Always kinda figured you for a sparkly gel pen guy.”

Wade scoffs and mutters something about _ink_ and _accidents_ and _not worth the risk_ but he’s not listening. They still have half a truck to unload and it’s not getting any warmer. They’re losing sunlight fast and they need to return the moving truck before eight or they’ll get charged for another day.

“C’mon, we’ll snuggle on the couch with all of your soft things later.”

Wade cuts off mid-ramble. “Really?”

Peter stops halfway out the door and blinks blankly at him. “Yeah, why not? D’you think you can make hot cocoa the way Aunt May does?”

“Petey, I’m wounded. Of course I can. She even gave it her stamp of approval last time.”

“Perfect. Let’s hurry up then.”

~*~

“Wait. Bob as in Hydra Bob? You invited Hydra Bob to our housewarming party?”

Wade sighs and turns away from the box of DVDs he’s midway through unpacking onto the bookshelf beside the TV. “See sweetums, this is why I wasn’t sure about taking this step with you. If you can’t accept my friends then we can’t—,”

“What? No, Wade shut up. He thinks I owe him fifty bucks. We should just cancel the whole party. He’s going to be _unbearable.”_

Wade throws up his arms and drops to the floor. “So give him his fifty bucks! We’re splitting rent now. You can affor—,”

“He _thinks_ I owe him fifty bucks. I won the bet fair and square but he’s too stubborn to—,”

“Wait. What bet? Why wasn’t I in on it?”

“Because it was about _you,_ dumbass.”

He picks up a box labeled, _‘kitchen’_ and makes it all of two steps before Wade lurches in front of him.

“What?! Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“No.” He gestures with his chin. “Go unpack the plates. We can’t do take out again tonight and I’m starv—,”

Wade grabs him by his shoulders. “Tell me about the bet!”

“Get off of me!”

“Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“Wade, the box!”

“I deserve to kno—,”

The bottom of the box gives out under Wade’s weight, sending his mug collection crashing to the hardwood floor. Ceramic shatters, then silence.

“Wade.”

“Uh, yes Petey-pie, light of my life?”

“I’ll give you a three-second head start and then I’m gonna kill you.”

“…I’ll get my mask.”

His internal count down only makes it to two before he tears after him.

“You DESTROYED my limited edition Howling Commandos mug! I’m going to MURDER YOU, Wade Wilson!”

“EEIIIIEEEEEE,” Wade squeals as he runs for his life. He doesn’t make it to his mask. He doesn’t make it to his room.

Peter grabs two fistfuls of the back of Wade’s sweater and the fabric tears as he hurls him into the couch.

Wade tumbles over the back of it and rolls with the momentum—already back on his feet and sprinting out the front door as Peter stomps after him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’ll make it up to you!”

“They don’t _make them anymore!_ You literally can’t make this up to me!”

A door opens down the hall and Wade doesn’t hesitate, he dives inside the apartment, eliciting a startled yell from its occupant.

“Wade, no!”

He rushes to the doorway and stops. Wade is hunched behind an old man, arms over his head cowering.

“Wade, get out here right this instant! I’m so sorry, sir.”

“He’s trying to hurt me!” Wade exclaims.

_Oh my God, this is humiliating._

“Wade, I swear to God, if you don’t leave this poor man alone and get your ass out here—,”

“He’s fine,” the old man says. He’s smiling, laugh-lines creasing the sides of his mouth and framing his eyes. “You’re the ones moving into 204?”

“I… Yeah, that’s us. I’m really sorry about—,”

“Don’t worry about it. Come in, come in. I can start up some coffee if you’ve got the time.”

“We would _love_ some,” Wade chirps, strategically keeping the old man as a barrier between them as he slowly shuffles to the kitchen with his cane.

“Wade—,” he says, a warning in his tone.

“I take it you’re Wade,” the old man says, unperturbed by Wade’s proximity and bare face. “What’s this fellow’s name then? He seems high-strung.”

Wade gapes at him, mouth open in delight. “You’re my new best friend,” he declares. “This is my _old_ best friend. You can call him Petey or Petey Pie or Patholomew if you’re feeling fancy. He can be fun when he wants to but you gotta watch out for his temper. It tends to crop up without warning.”

“It was a collector’s item!”

“I said I’d make it up to you!”

“You _can’t,”_ he snaps. “I told you, they don’t _make them anymore.”_

The old man chuckles, seeming to enjoy their bickering. “Well come on in, Pete. You’re letting out the warm air. You boys can call me Jake or Jakey or Jacob if you’re feeling fancy.”

“Achy Breaky Jakey it is!”

Jake chuckles and low and behold, Wade has a new friend.

~*~

Two days later, Peter comes home to find his Howling Commandos mug sitting on the counter. Faint lines indicate where the ceramic had shattered before being painstakingly pieced back together and sealed. He turns it between his fingers, heart warm and heavy in his chest, then places it front and center on the top shelf of the bookcase.

~*~

“He’s not that bad,” he says to the phone as he does one final sweep around the empty apartment where he’s lived for the past four years.

“He’s cleaning inside the toilet tank,” MJ says flatly.

He pauses on the threshold of the kitchen. “Okay, that’s kind of bad. I don’t know. As long as it’s keeping him busy, just let him. He’s got a thing about impressing Aunt May.”

“I don’t know why,” MJ says on a sigh. “She dotes on him.”

“He just worries.”

“Worries that she’ll warn you away from him?”

He shrugs. He can hear the inflection in her tone. The one that says they act more like lovers than like friends but there’s nothing he can do about that. He’s happy. Yeah, Wade drives him up the wall sometimes but he’s hardly a saint himself. He can’t imagine anyone else who wouldn’t bat an eye when he crawls through the window with bloody knuckles and a knife in his leg. He can’t imagine anyone else who would rib him for his sloppy cross-stitch while scrubbing the blood from his suit in the bathtub before it can set into the fabric.

Sure, they’re unconventional but it’s already more than he ever thought he’d have and he’s not one to look the gift horse in the mouth. He’s been bit too many times.

“I’m almost finished here. I’ll be back in half an hour if you can keep him from doing anything too ambitious.”

“Ambitious,” she repeats dryly. “What qualifies as ambitious?”

“I don’t know just keep him away from paint and power tools.”

MJ mutters something under her breath and then says, “Hurry up, Parker or I’m going to have to charge you my usual babysitting rates.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He tucks his phone into his pocket and gazes around the place. The landlord is gonna have her work cut out for her, that’s for sure. It’s good that he gave up any delusions about getting his security deposit back years ago. There are discolored spots on the walls where they patched them after Wade shot up the place with his rubber bullets and strange stains mar the carpet, some he doesn’t even remember making.

He’s not going to miss the mildew in the bathroom or the roaches that always come back no matter how many times they bomb the place. He won’t miss the cramped living room or the tiny kitchen or the broken latch on the bedroom window.

But there are memories here. More than he expected. Dancing in the kitchen. Eating too much cake. Playing tag and putting that hole in the ceiling with his elbow. Late nights sewing their suits on the couch. Lazy days spent munching cereal and binging trash TV. Winding down from late-night patrols with cartoons and a heap of blankets.

It’s more than he thought he’d have to leave behind but now they have a place that’s theirs. Both of theirs.

He sets his key on the counter and pauses in the doorway, taking one last look. His gaze lingers on the water stain over where the couch used to be.

“It’s been an honor, Mr. President.”

He closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clicky that Next Chapter! This went waaayyyy long so I had to split it in two 🙃
> 
> See you at the end my friend


	5. The Stand

_4 Years and 1 Month Since The Start_

“For once in your goddamn life would you take the L and stay down?!”

Peter lifts the bottom of his mask just high enough to spit a mouthful of blood onto the polished concrete of the warehouse floor before tucking it back under his chin.

“No.” Everything hurts. His vision is swimming. He can hardly think through the pain, but he puts his hands under him and wills himself to his feet.

“Peter, please,” Wade says so softly he almost doesn’t hear it beneath the thunder of blood rushing in his ears.

“You staying behind?”

Wade growls in the back of his throat but unsheathes his katanas. “And pass up the view? Not a chance, baby boy.”

He’s snappish and not his usual chipper self but he’s not feeling up to his usual bounce and snark either so he lets it slide.

“Let’s kick some ass.”

~*~

They finish the mission more or less in one piece. He can tell Wade’s mad at him but he doesn’t acknowledge it. They just need to get through the last of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s debrief and then they can go home and pass out. He’s been fantasizing about their couch and Wade’s biggest fluffiest Hello Kitty blanket for the past fifteen minutes. Maybe he can even convince him to make enchiladas. He’s always clingy-cuddly and over-accommodating when he gets more hurt than usual.

He snaps back to attention as Wade stands up beside him.

Are they done already? That’s gotta be a record. He slowly struggles to his feet, biting back a groan of pain as his abused muscles strain and pull.

Wade puts a hand on his shoulder and eases him back down. “Not yet. They want to talk to me alone.”

His fatigue vanishes under a wave of adrenaline.

“What the hell for?” he demands, glaring at the stiff, expressionless mooks stationed in the room with them.

“Uh, a job offer I think,” Wade says, sounding unsure.

Peter blinks up at him but Wade is still masked up and his face is still beneath the fabric.

“Huh?”

Wade chuckles. “That’s what I said. I’ll shout the codeword if things get hairy in there.”

He makes an unhappy sound in his throat. There is no codeword. If there’s suddenly a lot of bangs and screaming, he’s supposed to come in swinging (heh). He’d rather have an actual codeword but it’s impossible to get Wade to agree to anything.

This time, they don’t need one.

Forty minutes later, Wade re-enters the room alone with a slim binder under his arm and his mask in hand, expression befuddled.

He stares at the limp mask clenched in his fist.

“Everything okay?”

Wade shrugs. “You ready to get out of here? They’ve got a Quinjet waiting for us.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

He dozes on Wade’s shoulder on the flight back to New York and by the time they land he’s able to walk without holding his breath against the pain. Web-swinging is a different story and he eventually relents and lets Wade call his cab driver buddy to drive them back to the apartment while he changes in an alley.

It’s funny. No matter how many times he works with the big names: The Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D., The Fantastic Four—it always comes back rushed costume changes in damp alleyways. Is Wade moving up from this? He’s got that binder. He took off his mask. What did he agree to? What are they going to make him do?

He feels sick and he doesn’t think it’s because of the urine smell.

~*~

“What’s in the binder?” he finally asks after enchiladas, after three episodes of Queer Eye that they’ve definitely watched before, after Wade swaddled them together in about fifty blankets and refused to let him off the couch for anything less than an emergency trip to the bathroom.

Wade doesn’t say a word and passes it over, eyeing him anxiously as he frees his hands from his cocoon to accept it.

“You’re kind of freaking me out,” he murmurs as he flips open the cover.

**TOP SECRET**

**AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY**

“I don’t know if I made the right choice,” Wade says. “Just… Just read it and tell me if I fucked up.”

He bites his lip and flips past the cover page.

_Congratulations! You’ve been accepted as an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D._

He looks up at Wade and finds him frowning at the binder, would-be eyebrows puckered and lips pressed into a hard line.

“Why do you think you might have fucked up?” he asks after a beat.

“You don’t like S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Doesn’t that… That means they’re bad, right?”

Peter shakes his head. “Not necessarily. I don’t _trust_ them, but that doesn’t mean they’re bad. There are good people that work for S.H.I.E.L.D. I’ve met them.”

“Then… I don’t get it. Why don’t you trust them?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. is an institution. Institutions can be corrupted, especially when their modus operandi is, do as you’re told and don’t ask questions. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents I’ve met and worked with all seem to be on the up and up but—,”

“A few bad apples spoil the barrel,” Wade says knowingly. “So you think I’ve set myself up to be exploited?”

“No. Yes. Maybe, I don’t know.” He leans his head back and says to the ceiling, “I’m worried they want to turn you into their weapon. An unstoppable killing machine.” He takes a breath and admits quietly, “It scares me.”

“They can’t. Those were my terms. Let me see that thing.” He grabs the binder and sets it in his lap as he flips to a page near the back. He jabs a finger at the page. There’s a smudge of black in on his fingertip that matches the messy scrawl just above the two signature blocks at the bottom of the page. “See? I even got them to initial it so it’s officially part of the contract.”

He accepts the binder and scans the added text.

‘ _Wade Wilson cannot be contracted to unalive, grievously injure, or lethally maim any persons of any species or nationality whether of this galaxy or beyond. Wade Wilson may use his own decretion to accept or reject any proposed assignments.’_

“You spelled discretion wrong.”

“Aw shit,” he says and then giggles at his pun.

“You did that on purpose.”

“They still initialed it! I’m in the clear!”

“Wade,” he says. Should he tell him _decretion_ isn’t a word? He was definitely trying for _defecation_ or _excrement_ but does he really want to be the one to stomp on his butterfly?

“Yes, baby boy?” Wade asks, fluttering his lash-less eyes down at him.

“We should celebrate your new job,” he says after a beat. “You wanna pick a movie?”

“Ooo I would _love_ to! Did you see the first Trolls movie? If not, we’ll start there. I’ve been dying to watch the second one.”

“You know I haven’t.”

Wade sighs and shakes his head as he settles in beside him, tossing the binder across the room into the armchair they bought after MJ complained a million times about there not being enough places to sit when her and Aunt May come to visit. Unless they have company, it functions more as a stuff collector than a place to sit.

“Uncultured,” Wade says, picking up the remote. “No respect for art.”

“Work’s dried up, hasn’t it?” he asks.

Wade stills.

“I didn’t notice before we moved in together but you’re hardly ever gone on missions now.”

Wade pulls a face, shrugging. “Knew it’d happen eventually. Can only exploit loopholes for so long before they cinch them shut. Clients at Sister Margaret’s have gotten unreasonably specific in their instructions and proof requirements. Not that it matters. No one wants to hire me except people who don’t want to see their target dead and those are few and far between and don’t pay near as good.”

He hums and leans on Wade’s shoulder. He can’t say he’s upset. Wade’s merc work has always seemed precarious. He’s always one pissed off client away from someone shooting up their front door. Not that either of them has much to worry about but they’ve got good neighbors and he’s got a secret identity to maintain.

But he’s not sure how big of a step up S.H.I.E.L.D. will be. Wade’s good at what he does. Amazing, really. He’s an expert swordsman and marksman but he struggles with morality and ethics. He has a tendency to get lost in the gray and that concerns him.

He shifts the blankets as the movie begins so he can see the screen fully and notices a smudge of black on his fingertip. That’s weird. The ink must not have been all the way dry.

~*~

_Four Years and Five Months Since The Start_

“Don’t bake any more pies!” Peter all but shouts into the phone as he shoulders his way through the sidewalk traffic clogging the subway entrance. “Are you listening to me, Wade?” He swipes his card with senseless ferocity. “No more pies!”

“I hear you, Petey, I hear you,” Wade says in a tone that sets his teeth on edge. “All I’m saying is that technically, turnovers aren’t p—,”

“I’m not bringing an entire bakery to my aunt’s house! Three pies were already too many! There are only going to be five of us. Please, _please_ stop baking.”

“Five?” Wade echoes. “Who are the other two?”

“MJ and her Aunt Anna. She lives next door.”

“Aww is that how you and Emmy met? The girl next door? That’s _so swee—,”_

“Don’t change the subject,” he snaps, slipping between the rapidly closing doors of the train. “If I get home and there are more than three pies and however many turnovers you’ve already made I’m going to start feeding things down the garbage disposal.”

Wade gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

Peter collapses into an open seat and yanks his scarf free from his neck. “Try me.”

He hangs up before Wade can prolong the argument and lets his head thud back against the wall.

“Trouble in paradise?” A familiar brusque voice asks.

He sits up and finds himself sitting across from none other than J. Jonah Jameson. He hasn’t seen him since he slammed his office door in his face after firing him for the last time.

“Mr. Jameson!” he says, bolting upright. “I— Wow, hi. Umm, how have you been?”

Mr. Jameson snorts and slouches in his seat, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his long tan coat. “As if you don’t know. I assume you regularly tune into the Bugle?” He raises two heavy eyebrows expectantly.

“I mean— Of course,” he stutters. Not because he enjoys the program, but it pays to stay on top of what insults will be hurled at him from the sidewalks as he swings by.

Jameson smiles. “That’s a good lad. So how are things? Got yourself a spouse by the sound of things.”

He snorts. “God, I wish. No, that was my roommate. He’s coming to Aunt May’s with me for Thanksgiving and it’s the first holiday that’s he’s properly celebrated in a long time so he’s going way overboard.”

“That mercenary hasn’t been giving you grief, has he?”

He freezes. Technically he gives him nothing _but_ grief, but that’s not what Jameson’s asking.

“He’s… fine. Nothing bad.”

Jameson narrows his eyes and then harrumphs like a horse, sending his mustache billowing. “Well, I meant what I said on air, kid. Don’t be a hero. You know I’ve got my issues with how the police force is run but you call 911 if he tries anything with you, you hear?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Jameson eyes him and he sweats. He really doesn’t want to try and explain his and Wade’s relationship to his former boss. His former boss who has a podcast with a modest following and no compunctions about airing his dirty laundry all over the airwaves.

“What do you do nowadays, son? I haven’t been seeing your name around much. I expected to find you selling prints to other papers.”

“Oh! I uh, actually, I went back to NYU and got my bachelor’s and was offered a position at Stark Industries. I’m an assistant in one of the upper labs. I even get to see Tony Stark sometimes.”

Sometimes more often than he’d like.

Those eyebrows jump and then a satisfied smile twitches his mustache. “It’s about time, kid. I can only fire you so many times, you know?” His gaze flicks up to the sign overhead and then he gets to his feet.

Meanwhile, Peter’s brain is whirring like an overtaxed processor.

“Wait, what?”

“I said what I said,” Jameson grunts. “Watch out for that Stark, you hear? Never trust a billionaire.”

And with that, he’s gone as quickly as he appeared and the train doors slide shut in his wake.

~*~

He’s slumped over the front porch railing, belly too full to move, when the door opens behind him.

“Hey there, Tiger. Thought you might like some company.” She shuts the door, muffling Wade’s booming laugh and May and Anna’s much quieter twittering at his antics.

“Sure,” he says. “Just enjoying the quiet.”

“He’s trying a bit too hard,” she says kindly but with a teasing slant to her lips.

He snorts. “You could say that.”

They lapse into silence and MJ pulls her sweater closer around her shoulders. Small puffs of white cloud in front of their lips, tinted orange by the glow of the street lights as behind them the rest of their party bursts into another round of raucous laughter.

“He’s weirdly magnetic to old people.”

“I could say the same about you, Mr. Parker,” MJ tells him, nudging his shoulder with hers as she joins him on the railing.

“I can be charming,” he says with a crooked grin, “but he becomes either best friends or mortal enemies with every old person he meets. It’s uncanny.”

She sniffs. “I suppose.” She sucks in a breath as though to add something else, but then releases and shakes her head.

“What?” he asks, bumping her shoulder. “Spit it out. You’ve been tiptoeing around me all night.”

She presses her lips together in a thin smile. “Have I been that obvious?”

“Only because I know you so well. What’s up?”

She turns her face down and sucks her teeth, picking idly at a loose bit of cabling in her sweater. “I… Harry’s been asking about you.” She bites her lips and turns her gaze up to meet his. “He wants you to come visit.”

Shock rattles his spine and turns his legs to stone. He stares.

“What? When was— I can’t. They blacklisted me. I can’t—,”

“They lifted it last week.”

“No,” he says, reflexively.

Unbidden, memories of his last visit flash across his vision. Harry’s face, veins bulging, mouth torn open in a scream of rage as three orderlies haul him off of him and out of the room. It took less than an hour for the scratches to heal from his face and neck but he’ll never forget them. _He_ did that. Harry had been doing so well and simply the sight of him had been enough to drag him back to square one.

“No,” he repeats. “I can’t. I’m not good for him. I can’t.”

MJ’s hand covers his on the railing. “Pete, listen—,”

He rips his hand away and stumbles back but MJ matches him step for step and takes his hand again, holding it between both of hers.

“Please, Pete? He’s been working really hard, okay? He wants to see you.” Bright green eyes sparkle, but no tears break free. “He misses you. Just… think about it? Please?”

His heart races under his skin, frantic and erratic. “I… Okay. I’ll think about it.”

He blinks and suddenly his arms are full of red hair and emerald green sweater and MJ. She squeezes him tight.

“I’ll update you on all the progress he’s made. It’s incredible. You’re going to be so proud of him. I really think he’s ready for this.”

He holds her close and rests his cheek on her head. “I’m already proud of him, Em.”

~*~

_Four Years and Eight Months Since The Start_

“Guh! Wade, what is all of this?” He bats a pink balloon out of his face and nearly clotheslines himself on a drooping stretch of red streamer. The smell of latex is so potent it’s nauseating.

“It’s friendship day!” Wade chirps, spinning past the doorway of the kitchen with a tray of heart-shaped cookies held between two lobster claw oven mitts, his frilly pink apron flaring around his thighs as he goes.

“Huh?”

He kicks through a sea of balloons up to his knees and finally extracts himself from the chaos and into the kitchen. He blinks hard. Cookies adorn every surface. Some frosted, some still cooling.

“They’re for F.E.A.S.T.,” Wade says, efficiently emptying his tray of cookies onto a cooling rack with an expertly wielded spatula. “May and I are handing them out and then we’re getting mani-pedis after.”

“You… what? May?”

“Yes, _May,”_ Wade says, rolling his eyes as he spins on the balls of his feet and sweeps to the other side of the room. Peter ducks the tray as he goes by and watches, nonplussed as he slaps heart-shaped cookie dough onto the tray and continues, “The timeless, irreverent, renowned _Aunt May._ Is that a problem, Spidey-kins?”

“I— no. Do you guys hang out a lot?”

“Oh, honey.” Wade shoots him a look over his shoulder and says, “We’re BFFs.”

“Oookay. So the balloons. Are they for F.E.A.S.T. too?”

“No, pumpkin! Those are for you! My other BFF!”

“You’re scaring me. Are you on drugs? This is a lot, even for you.”

“It’s my favorite holiday! I’m allowed!”

“Allowed drugs?”

“Allowed to be cheerful!” He slides the tray in the oven and then turns and faces him with his lobster mitts on his hips. “May’s right, you’re a Debbie Downer and I’m better off spending the day with her.”

His jaw drops. “She did not say that!”

“It was implied.”

“Screw you.”

Wade shoots him a disappointed look and takes off his oven mitts. “Will you bag these up? I need to get dressed while this last batch is in the oven or I’ll be late.”

“Late to pass out cookies?”

Wade glares and pulls the apron over his head, revealing one of Peter’s science pun t-shirts, straining at the seams to contain Wade’s bulk. “Late for our mani-pedi appointment! Don’t try to frost anything. I’ll finish those when I get back.”

“I can frost things,” he grumbles after Wade sweeps from the room, leaving him surrounded by cookies that aren’t even for him.

He manages to bag up half the cookies before Wade returns sporting a white dress covered in pink and red hearts that hangs around mid-thigh with apple-red leggings to match. It all makes sense except for the black combat boots.

“Aren’t you supposed to wear sandals or something?”

Wade freezes mid-skip. “Oh my God.” He bolts from the room and returns a few minutes later in a familiar pair of red flip flops.

“Those are MJ’s.”

“Hey if she’s going to keep leaving her stuff here, it’s fair game.”

He pads over to the oven and Peter snorts as he realizes his heels are completely hanging off the ends.

“Sure.”

They make quick work finishing up the cookies and by the time they’re all bagged up and hanging from Wade’s arms in reused grocery sacks he looks like some sort of bizarre inverted version of Santa Claus.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Wade exclaims, retreating from the doorway to press a bag of cookies into his hand. “Ta-ta!” he practically sings. “I’ll be home for dinner.” Then he presses a kiss to Peter’s cheek and is gone out the door.

Bag of cookies in hand and heart in his throat, he stares at the closed door, the ghost of Wade’s warm lips against his cheek forever seared into his memory. It feels like days pass before he uproots his feet and drifts to the couch, balloons floating up around him before settling back in his wake.

He collapses on the couch, drawing his knees to his chest.

“He’s in way too deep,” he says to the room now void of life in the wake of all of Wade’s personality.

Mechanically, he removes the twist-tie from his bag and crams an entire cookie into his mouth.

Friendship day.

To everyone else, it’s _Valentine’s Day._ A day for soulmates to parade around with their ever-changing ink on display. A day for the mate-less to put on long sleeves and a scarf and brave the bars where the other mate-less people will look much the same, or stay home and wait for it all to pass.

Friendship day.

It’s funny because he has a soulmate but he’s alone, just like the mate-less. Only not, because Wade is mate-less and yet he’s out there and he has plans and he’s disgustingly cheerful and it’s his favorite holiday.

Friendship day.

He swats away a white balloon that attempts to static-cling to his shin.

Friendship day.

He bites his lip and unlocks his phone, staring at the link to the folder MJ shared with him months ago but he hasn’t been brave enough to open.

Friendship day.

He crams another cookie in his mouth and clicks the link.

~*~

“I gotta talk to you,” he says. As soon as the door closes behind him he rips off his mask and wrings it between his hands. Something clatters on the other side of the room but he hardly notices as he paces. “I know you’re not really a feelings guy but Wade and Aunt May are out and MJ is _way_ too invested so it was either come here or talk to Weasel and he’s the worst at feelings. _The worst._ You’d think as a bartender he’d at least be good at the listening part but he doesn’t even do that! He just tunes out and the next thing you know you’ve been spilling your guts for an hour and all you get in return is charged double and a pitying stare from the guy on the stool next to you.”

He pauses in his rant, realizing that in all his pacing he somehow ended up on the ceiling and that Tony hasn’t said a word, which is very unlike him.

He flips down, perching on a workbench. “Tony? Did I break you? I figured, you know,” he runs a hand through his hair, “it’s friendship day so it seemed fitting. Timing, you know.”

Tony, stares at him, eyes bugging, jaw hanging. “I— Wha— Okay? So as a sign of friendship you’re…”

“Revealing my identity, yeah.” He declines to mention that he decided to do the big reveal almost two years ago but uh… hasn’t had the courage until now. Well, he supposes he still doesn’t have the courage, but there’s something else taking up all of his anxiety.

“Focus up,” he says, drawing Tony’s attention to the problem at hand. “I just… I’m _scared,_ alright? I don’t want to fuck up again. I messed him up real bad last time, Tony. _Real_ bad. Is it… Am I selfish for even considering this?” He forces his lips together to stem his anxious rambling and watches Tony expectantly.

He opens and closes his mouth then shakes his head and says, “Kid, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, but before you link me the Spark Notes, can I have a minute to process that after _fifteen freaking years_ of asking for it, you’ve _finally_ decided to show me your face?”

“Oh, uh yeah sure. I’ll just…sit here quietly.” He plops down onto the workbench, kicking his heels and drumming his fingers on the edge while Tony stares at him, seemingly taking in every detail. “If you don’t quit staring like you’re going to eat me I’m gonna have to put the mask back on.”

“You’re insufferable. Fine. _Fine!_ What’s this drama about then?”

He sucks in a fortifying breath and grips the edge of the workbench until it creaks before saying, “We’ve gotta go kinda far back.”

Tony leans back on his workbench and makes a ‘go ahead’ gesture before crossing his arms loosely. “Lay it on me, kid. I’ve got all night.”

Half an hour later, they’re sitting side-by-side with their backs against the chemical cabinet and their numb butts frozen to the hard unforgiving floor.

“First of all,” Tony says after a long nerve-wracking silence as he digests the story, “what happened to your friends isn’t your fault.”

“That’s… that’s not what this is about,” he says weakly.

“It needed to be said,” Tony says. “Second, this is what your identity paranoia stems from, isn’t it? Osborn came dangerously close to ruining everything for you.”

He keeps his mouth shut. In a way, Norman _did_ ruin everything for him. Gwen died because he found out she was important to him and for almost a decade he was too traumatized to let himself have friends. Aunt May, who has always deserved better than he can give her, was his only confidant and to this day he keeps a major part of himself from her. It was only when Wade refused to be rejected that his life began to slink out of the gutter.

And yet, it could have been so much worse. Had Goblin exposed his identity, him and May would likely be dead by now. He’s lucky—

“It’s lucky he died,” Tony says.

He flinches.

“What?” Tony asks. “It’s true. Don’t tell me you feel guilty about that too.”

He looks down at his hands. “I… Sometimes I wonder if I let it happen. If— if some subconscious part of me recognized that I’d be better off if he was dead and then I… I didn’t try as hard as I could have to save him.”

“Kid,” Tony puts his hand on his shoulder, “that’s some of the finest bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m being serious, Tony,” he snaps, scowling over at him. “I was so— I was _furious._ I _wanted_ to kill him. You weren’t there so don’t act like you know better than me.”

Tony puts up his hands in surrender. “Alright, you know better. All I’ll say is that by now, I think I know you pretty well, and letting someone die doesn’t sound like you at all. We all make mistakes, kiddo. There’s always someone we can’t save. Holding yourself to some impossible God-like standard doesn’t serve anyone, least of all you.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I came here to talk about.”

“Right, Osborn Jr. wants you to go visit him in the funny farm.”

 _“Fucking—_ I’m leaving.” He shoves to his feet.

Tony scrambles after him. “Hold on, I was just—,”

He turns on him. “I came here for your advice but if you’re going to be an ass—,”

“Alright! No more jokes! I’ll—,”

“This isn’t a joke! He’s— It’s been twelve years and— The file that MJ sent me— He’s made so much progress and I can’t be the one to ruin that for him. I can’t undo all of his hard work. I _can’t.”_

“So perform a test,” Tony says.

“I— What?”

“You’re a scientist. What do you do when you have an idea for a new solution and you’re not sure how the chemicals will react?”

“Scale it down and perform a test in a secure environment,” he recites.

“And then collect the data, analyze it, and if all is well, try a bigger test. Take your time. Test the waters. You don’t have to jump in with both feet.”

“So…” He wrings his mask, frowning hard at the floor as he thinks. “What does that mean? Should I… maybe start with a picture? And if he doesn’t freak out maybe… a video?”

“That sounds like a solid plan to me. As long as he’s in a place with people who can help him if he does react poorly.”

The knot of panic at the base of his throat loosens and he finds he can breathe again. “Thanks, Tony. That’s really— That helps a lot.”

“Anytime, buddy.”

“Its… It’s Peter. Parker. Peter Parker.”

Tony smiles, surprised pleasure lighting his face. “Pete, then,” he says then pauses. “Parker? Like May Parker?”

He grins. “She’s technically my aunt but she’s the closest thing I’ve had to a mom since I was like six.”

Tony gapes at him. “I thought you were so being so smart and cautious but you’ve been having me send your paychecks to your aunt?!”

He laughs. “It worked, didn’t it? You didn’t figure it out.”

“I cannot believe—,”

“Anthony Edward Stark,” Pepper Potts-Stark’s clipped voice rings through the room. They both flinch hard. “Pray tell, what time is it and why haven’t you been answering my messages.”

“Oh shit.” He swipes up the sleeve of his Henley and grimaces at the wall of neat black letters coating his forearm. “Pep, I can explai—”

“I t _old you_ if you went into that lab you’d lose track of time and miss our reservation. I swear to God, Tony, I—,”

“Hi, Mrs. Potts-Stark,” Peter says with an apologetic grimace to Tony. “It’s uh, my fault Tony missed your date. I’m real sorry. I wasn’t thinking about the day, I’m sure you had Valentine’s plans and I came in and mucked them all up. I’m really sorry.”

“Spider-Man?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s me. I’m him. He be me.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Tony says, taking advantage of Pepper’s momentary silence. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. I swear.”

A heavy sigh fuzzes the call. “I’ll give you five. I’ve already finished a glass of wine and the host is eyeing our table.”

“I’ll be there in four,” Tony promises, already moving for the door. To Peter, he says, “We’re done here, right? Crisis averted and whatnot?”

“Oh yeah, yeah. Thanks again.”

“Anytime. Well—,” he pauses in the doorway as Peter tugs his mask over his face, “—maybe not on Valentine’s Day next time if you can help it.”

He snorts. “I’ll try to schedule any future crises as conveniently for you as possible.”

“That's all I ask. See you around, kid.”

“See you.”

“Spider-Man?” Pepper asks before the door has finished falling shut.

He jumps. He hadn’t realized she was still on the line.

“Oh umm, yes?”

“Thank you,” she says warmly.

“For what?” He hasn’t done anything. Tony was the one helping him.

“To him you’re… Well, just thank you.”

~*~

“I’m having second thoughts,” he announces, sticking his feet to the sidewalk and refusing to budge.

MJ sighs. “Pete, we’re almost there.” She waves a hand at the innocuous glass doors mere steps away.

“I can’t do it. I’m not ready.” His chest is tight and he knows he’s on the verge of a panic attack but none of his coping mechanisms are helping. He’s locked in place, unable to step closer to the building Harry’s been living in for the past decade. Healing. Growing.

He can’t ruin that for him like he ruins everything. He can’t send him spiraling back to step one again. Not after all of the work he’s put in. Not after all this time. He memorized everything MJ sent him in that folder. Every milestone. Every progress note. There was a video file. Just one. It was Harry and MJ playing cards together and he was laughing. His face was full of color and he was laughing.

He can’t take that away from him. He can’t do it. He won’t.

“Hey baby boy, take a breath for me, would you?”

He sucks in a breath on instinct before his muddled brain can pull itself together enough to realize what’s happening.

“Wade?” he says into the phone MJ is holding against his ear. His own voice sounds distant, foggy. Small.

“I’m here, buddy,” Wade says warmly. “Emmy says you didn’t make it into the building. What’s rattling around in that big brain of yours, huh?”

“She hates that you call her that,” he babbles instead of answering. He can’t yet. He’ll fall apart. He can’t.

Wade scoffs. “Please. Our little Emmy’s gonna be a star, I’m calling it now. You reap the energy you put into the world, you know. Today I’m calling her Emmy. Tomorrow she’s winning one. That’s how it works.”

“That doesn’t sound right. How come I’m not a millionaire?”

“Because you _whine_ too much. You’re always going on and on about my clothes on the floor.”

“Dirty underwear shouldn’t be in the kitchen, Wade. That’s a hill I’ll die on.”

“Fine, then it’s because you call me annoying all the time.”

“You’re the most annoying person I know.”

“Small potatoes, Petey! Small potatoes! That might have hurt a few years ago but now I know you only know like, seven people so whatever. Somebody’s gotta be the most annoying. I’m happy to take up the mantle and save Emmy the extra work.”

He snorts and a small smile tugs his lips.

“Better?” MJ asks, resting a hand on his elbow.

He pulls in a breath and his chest allows it easily. “Yeah,” he says on the exhale. “Thanks.”

She kisses his temple. “Anytime, Pete. Say goodbye to your beau. You can call him back when we’re done. Half an hour, remember?”

“Right. Half an hour.”

“You got this, baby boy,” Wade says. “Remember the pictures? He’s been practicing for this. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

“Right. The pictures.”

MJ was crucial in carrying out the plan he put together with Tony. She was the one to show Harry a picture of him and after he reacted well, she showed him a video that she recorded of him and Wade roughhousing in the living room. Then, when Harry insisted he still wanted him to come visit, she, of course, did him one better and brought an entire photo album for him to keep. So for the past couple of weeks, Harry’s been flipping through the album once a day, making sure that seeing his face again after all this time won’t trigger him like before.

“I’m proud of you, pumpkin,” Wade says.

He snorts. “Thanks, mom.”

“Aww, he sees me as a mother-figure. Like a duckling!”

“Goodbye, Wade. You’re the worst.”

“I love you too my little snuggle muff—,”

MJ hangs up and links her arm through his. “The pair of you are sickening.”

He takes a step towards the doors and then another. “You’re the one that called him.”

She snorts. “Don’t make me pull the receipts on that one. We both know I wouldn’t have been able to pull you out of a spiral that fast.”

He mumbles nonsense under his breath, not willing to concede to her point but lacking a counterpoint.

MJ pushes through the door he’s still blinking sunlight out of his eyes when he hears him.

“Peter, you came.”

Wait. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to have more time. He’s supposed to be waiting in his room or some kind of rec room or something. Not standing in the lobby. He’s not ready. He’s not—

His eyes adjust to the light and there he is, just like he was in the video saved in his progress file. He seems taller than he remembers. More fit. There must be a gym on-site that he uses regularly. Gone is the pale scrawny kid he grew up with. His best friend. In his place is a happy healthy man who looks him in the eye and smiles.

“Harry?” he asks. His vision clouds over and he wipes his eyes hastily. “Sorry, sorry. I— wow. Hi, it’s been— Sorry, I—,”

Harry laughs and he notices his eyes are tearing up too. “It’s good to see you, Pete. I missed you, man.”

He laughs, a shaky nervous little thing. MJ tightens her grip on his arm and only then does he realize he’s trembling.

“I missed you too, Har. Is this okay? Are you okay?”

Harry nods sharply, his throat working soundlessly as he swipes at his eyes. “God, I didn’t think I’d get this emotional. I had the pictures but it’s not the same. I—,” He shakes his head, regaining some of his composure. “Hey, Em.”

“Good to see you, Har,” MJ says, her voice wet.

“They’ve got a table set up for us in the rec room. I thought— I thought we could play Sorry?”

Peter chokes on a laugh. “Sorry?” he asks.

Harry shrugs with a rueful smile. “Seemed appropriate.”

He laughs again, swiping at his eyes feeling sloppy and damp. “Sorry I’m being such a mess about this.”

“That’s the spirit,” Harry says with a familiar ironic grin.

He dissolves into giggles that are only slightly hysterical.

“Christ,” MJ murmurs. “I don’t know if I’m ready to deal with the pair of you again.”

“No take-backs,” Harry tells her. “Come on, let go sit down.”

A half an hour has never gone by so quickly. He swears the clocks here move extra fast but when he checks his phone he finds them to be accurate. A liminal space then maybe.

They don’t even get to finish their game but that could be because they’re too busy talking. Twelve years leaves a lot of catching up. Even though they dance around anything Spider-Man, there’s plenty of talk between the three of them to take up their measly thirty-minutes. He pretends not to notice MJ and Harry swapping looks every time he mentions Wade, which he’ll admit is a lot, but he can’t help that he’s spent most of the past five years with Wade at his side.

Too soon, they’re putting away the board game and lingering, unsure of how to say goodbye.

“You’ll come with MJ next week won’t you?” Harry finally asks, fingers twisted in the hem of his sweater. It’s a strange new mannerism that he can’t reconcile with the old Harry. Old Harry would never have been allowed such a visible show of nerves. He takes it as a good sign.

“Of course. Wade can take over patr— I mean, I’ll be here. Definitely.”

Harry smiles, as easily forgiving of the slip as he has been since he arrived. He hates himself for searching his eyes for a flash of the Goblin, but he breathes easier when he doesn’t find it.

Harry holds his arms out from his sides. “You still a hugger?”

His laugh turns into a sniff and he doesn’t hesitate to walk into his embrace and hug him back.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he confesses, tears unchecked on his cheeks for the millionth time today.

“Never, Pete. I’m sorry I took so long.”

“No, don’t apologize. You got here, that’s what matters. That’s all that matters.”

~*~

MJ delivers him through his front door but doesn’t stick around and it’s probably for the best because he almost does it.

The door closes behind him and Wade steps out of the kitchen and he almost does it.

He almost crashes right in and presses his lips against Wade’s. His feet are already moving and his mind is choking on all of the emotions of the day and Wade is _right there._ He comes back to himself at the last second and bashes his forehead against his collarbone instead, tripping and landing against his chest.

Wade catches him, of course he does, and laughs.

“Easy, baby boy. You’ve had a heck of a day. I say we take it easy with some fancy juice and 90’s Disney. Maybe a massage if you’re nice to me. What do you think?”

“I love you,” he mumbles against his shirt.

He’s never been so happy.

No, not happy. Not quite. He’s never been so _at peace._ He’s never had so many things going right at the same time. Aunt May is healthy and happy and pouring her love out into the city via F.E.A.S.T. MJ is back and a permanent fixture in his life and they can joke and laugh and call each other in the middle of the night without reservation. And Harry—God, Harry. He’s okay. He’s okay and he’s got plans to see him again in a week.

So maybe he is happy. He’s so happy he’s loopy from it.

Wade chuckles and kisses his crown. “I love you too.”

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t, not the way Peter loves him. He doesn’t.

“No, Wade. I _really_ love you.”

Wade’s chuckles fade and he rests his chin atop his head and says lowly, “I know.”

But he doesn’t.

Because he _loves_ him. He loves him. He loves him. He loves him.

But Wade’ll never know because he can’t _hear him_ when he says it.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too,” Wade responds.

But he doesn’t. Not the way Peter loves him.

He doesn’t.

~*~

_5 Years Since The Start_

It happens after they foil a bank robbery.

“You little shits thought you were so slick,” Wade mocks the wanna-be bank robbers, fanning himself with a bundle of bills while he paces leisurely in front of where they’re webbed up against the wall in a neat uniform line from smallest to largest.

What? He’s not allowed to have fun? Maybe taking pride in perfection isn’t most people’s idea of a good time but sue him, it brings him a sense of accomplishment.

(Please please don’t sue him. There’s no way him and Wade can afford the legal fees. Who’da thunk honest merc work would be so hard to come by? And the S.H.I.E.L.D. missions are spotty at best ever since they figured out Wade doesn’t do so great at following directions and staying on task. It’s almost like insubordination was the whole reason he was discharged from the military in the first place.)

“You thought you could sneak in here and loot the place while everyone was distracted by Doc Ock’s latest escapade? For _shame.”_ The pink of his tongue is barely visible between his teeth as he clicks his tongue in faux-disappointment. The lower portion of his mask was torn in the aforementioned fight against Doc Ock—which of course they won and promptly sent him back to the Raft for the millionth time before stumbling across this little attempted heist on their way home.

All of which is to say, from where he’s perched waiting for the telltale sirens to tell them they can safely be on their way, he’s paying more attention to Wade’s smile than anything else when he thumbs back the stack of bills too far and a dye packet hidden inside explodes in his face.

In an instant, Wade is enveloped in an impressive scarlet cloud that completely obscures him from sight.

“You idiot!” he laughs down at him as it slowly dissipates.

Visible once more, Wade stands with arms akimbo staring down at himself. His suit, his weapons, and the exposed portion of his face are all dyed a brilliant, striking red.

He doubles over, laughing so hard he nearly topples right off the ceiling. “Y-you look like D-D-Daredevil!”

“Bleh!” Wade spits and rubs the back of his arm over his mouth but it’s too late. His chin, lips, teeth, and tongue are all red, red, red. “Not funny, Webs! My mouth was open and everything!” He rips off a glove and scratches at his tongue but only succeeds in getting dye under his fingernails and making himself gag. “Eck! It tasths tho bath!”

He carefully lowers himself to the floor, cackling gleefully, happy he was safely out of range of the explosion. He’d hate to ruin his enjoyment of Wade’s misery with the _hours_ it would take to make a whole new suit hanging over his head. That dye is _not_ coming out. It’s designed to stain skin and clothing to help catch thieves.

“Maybe some tacos will help get rid of the taste,” he says through his giggles.

“You’re buying,” Wade tells him, lips pursed in a pout.

He rolls his eyes. It hardly matters who buys what anymore. They already live together and share pretty much all of their expenses. They’re on the same phone plan for fuck’s sake. If he buys this time, Wade will more than make up for it with something else.

“Sure, ‘Pool. My treat, but no Spidey-back ride this time. I don’t want any of that stuff on my suit.”

“You’re gonna make me walk around like this in public?! I haven’t looked this busted since that time the Lizard tore both my arms off!”

“Dr. Connors apologized for that. Besides, didn’t you just go to the grocery store in a Hello Kitty dress last week?”

Wade gasps, pressing an affronted hand to his chest. “I look _cute_ in that dress!” He turns to the wanna-be bank robbers and gestures dramatically. “Tell him I look cute in it!”

“Uhh…”

“Ignore him,” Peter says. “I didn’t say you don’t look cute in it.”

“You implied it! Yeah, I _know_ the red combat boots were a bad choice but our black ones still had blood on… We were going to the grocery store! That’s a biohazard! …I am _not_ soft. You take that back!”

“White, Yellow, this is my time with Wade,” he says, moving as close as he dares. He _really_ doesn’t want any dye getting on his suit. Purple is Hawkeye’s color. “You guys can have him later.”

Wade looks at him like he always does when he successfully shuts White and Yellow up—something like awe and relief mingling to make one of his favorite expressions. Of course, he can only see half of Wade’s face, but he’s seen the look on it enough that he can imagine the rest.

“You’re a little soft,” he continues, “but I think that’s a good thing. C’mon, I hear the sirens.”

“Yeah, okay. But we should get extra chocolate sauce with our churros to make up for the plunge my street cred is about to take.”

“I never promised churros,” he says, leading the way out the door. “If you want churros you’ll have to pay up.”

Wade squawks and hurries after him.

~*~

Back at the apartment, he drops the bag of food on the coffee table.

“Don’t touch anything,” he orders. “Go shower.”

“What about Bea and Arthur?” Wade whines.

He pulls a face at the katanas on Wade’s back. Like everything else on him, the leather grips are coated in a patchy red film of dye. “We’ll figure out what to do about them after. Just get that suit in the trash and try to get as much off of your skin as you can.”

Wade grumbles something about cold chimichangas but dutifully trudges down the hall to the bathroom.

He rolls his eyes at his bellyaching and yanks his mask off as he ducks into his room. The shower starts up while he’s shimmying out of his suit and Wade’s voice warbles over the sound of the spray. He kicks his suit into the corner and in the dim evening light, grabs a random pair of pajama pants off the floor and tugs them on before padding back to the kitchen, covering a yawn and hiking up the sagging bottoms. They must be a pair of Wade’s if the way they barely cling to his hips is any indication.

Muscles lax and eyelids heavy, he’s quickly wearing down after their fight with Doc Ock. Starting in on the food to appease his metabolism and get his energy back up is tempting but he knows Wade likes to take meals together. A soda will perk him up a bit while he waits. And maybe a churro. What Wade doesn’t know he can’t complain about.

The light in the kitchen flickers twice before it steadies, illuminating the dingy little room in yellowish light. Someday they’ll move to an apartment with a better kitchen. He certainly doesn’t need it but Wade would probably like a little more counter space and a sink with some decent water pressure. Then again, moving would put an end to Wade and Jake’s weekly “poker night” where they gossip about the other residents of the complex while sipping hot sugary drinks and playing Uno. He thinks Wade would rather have the crummy kitchen than part with his friend.

He props the fridge open on his hip and reaches for a couple of cans only to stop short as bright splotches of red on his fingertips are brought into sharp contrast under the bare bulb within the fridge. His first thought is blood. It’s happened before that he’s gotten injured without noticing, especially during intense fights with experienced villains like Doc Ock.

But it’s not blood. It’s _dye._

_How on earth…_

Did he get dye on his suit after all? Enough to soak through his gloves and onto his fingers? How? He was so careful!

He grabs the soda cans and absently sets them on the counter as he inspects his fingers. He didn’t touch Wade, he’s sure of it. They have a pretty tactile relationship but he kept his distance. He’s serious about the suit thing. Starting from scratch is a massive pain and he doesn’t want to have to do that over something as stupid as a dye pack.

It’s crusted up under his fingernails, caked into the groves of his fingers. Before his eyes, some of it fades and disappears. _Huh?_ He flips on the light over the sink and watches closely. Sure enough, the powered bits are vanishing leaving only a faint reddish tint to his skin like a Kool-Aid stain. Like it’s being washed away…

His breath catches.

_No. It’s not possible. Wade said…_

He spins around and ducks to check his reflection in the microwave and gasps, bringing his hand up to feel his chin, his cheeks. He bares his teeth and sticks out his tongue. Red, red, red. It’s all _red._

_Oh my God._

A laugh bubbles out of his throat. _It’s Wade._ Of _course_ it’s Wade. He knew it. He _knew_ it. How could it be anyone _but_ Wade? Of course it’s Wade.

The shower shuts off and he stands there, staring at his reflection for all of five heartbeats before turning on his heel. He can’t wait. Not another minute. Not another second. It’s Wade and he’s right here. He’s been right here for years.

“Wade?”

_Of course it’s Wade._

He doesn’t register that the door is locked until he nearly tears the frame off the wall but at that point, it’s already open.

Wade yelps, towel around his waist as he spins around, feet tangling in the ridiculously fluffy rug that he brought back with him from Japan a few months ago, insisting that they deserve the luxury. The lower half of his face is still stained, an exact match to the blotchy red pattern decorating his cheeks and jaw.

Wade starts as he catches sight of his face. “Wha—,” Shock ripples over his features and he blinks hard. Then his face crumples. “Oh, baby boy,” he says, eyes roving over his chin and lips. “I’m so sorry. _Fuck._ You deserve so much better than—,”

“Wade,” he breathes. He releases the crunched doorknob and leaves the door to hang crooked from its hinges. A laugh trips out of his mouth, airy and breathless. “Wade, what the hell are you talking about? I’m— It’s— I can’t believe it’s you. I mean, of course it’s you. I’m so stupid for not realizing— Of course, it’s you.”

Wade shakes his head, stepping back until he bumps into the sink. “You don’t know… Petey, you deserve so much—,”

“Shut up you idiot,” he says. He steps up to him until he can feel the heat rolling off of him, soaking into his bare skin. He cradles Wade’s face, his fingers gentle and deliberate over the pocks and scars that litter his skin. Is there anyone else Wade would let touch him like this? Of course it’s him.

“I always hoped it was you,” he whispers, eyes hot as he fights back tears. “I wanted it to be you.”

Wade stares down at him, eyes wide and impossibly tender as they trace over the stains marring his face.

“I lied,” Wade confesses abruptly. “I mean, I let you assume and I never corrected you. I didn’t... I _shouldn’t_ have a soulmate. Someone like me shouldn’t have—,”

“Fuck off,” he says with a sniff. He laughs again and presses his forehead against Wade’s chest as the first tear slips free. He clings tightly as Wade hesitantly wraps his arms around his shoulders. “I’m so glad it’s you. Did you… Did you know?”

“That it was you? No. No way did I ever think the universe would be stupid enough to match someone like you with someone like me.”

Peter sniffs and clutches him tighter. “God, Wade. This is— I don’t know what to— Don’t disappear on me, okay? I promise I don’t have Stockholm Syndrome.” He chuckles.

Wade doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t answer.

Something icy seals over his heart and constricts.

He shoves back and Wade bumps into the sink sending the cup containing their toothbrushes clattering to the floor. He glares up at Wade who stares back stony-faced like he so rarely is, jaw-clenched and silent. It’s never good when Wade goes quiet.

“Don’t,” is all he can choke out, tears already drying on his cheeks. “Don’t.”

“Peter—,”

“Don’t call me that!” he shoves him and Wade, pliant under his palms, rocks back into the mirrored cabinet. It springs open, showering its contents over Wade’s shoulders—toothpaste, deodorant, shaving cream, floss. Things that don’t belong to just one of them. Things that can’t be divided. Things they share.

“I’m no good for you.”

“That’s crap, Wade. What have we been doing all this time if you’re just going to pack up and leave me now?” The words barrel out from behind his teeth like they’re afraid they’ll be bitten back again. “You’re my best friend and I love you. And I don’t mean as friends. I’m _in love_ with you. I have been for years.”

“Bullshit,” Wade says, voice soft like the click of a gun being taken off safety. He’s staring at him with that stupid guarded expression—carefully, deliberately, _infuriatingly_ blank.

He steps forward until they’re chest to chest and glares up at him. “The only reason I haven’t made a move before now is because I thought I had a soulmate and you didn’t. I didn’t want to— to be unfaithful to them or something. I don’t know. I didn’t want to take a chance starting something with you only to meet my soulmate later and have to choose.”

Wade stays silent, staring.

He grinds his teeth and snaps, “If we didn’t have this soulmate crap clouding the air between us, do you know how many times I’d have kissed you by now?”

Wade’s mask slips as he glances down at his lips then back to his eyes, his heart beating faster, barely audible to Peter’s enhanced ears. “No,” he says.

“Too many to count,” he says. “Right now is one of them. Well, it was. Now I sort of want to punch you.”

“I have that effect on people,” Wade says, but his eyes flick down to his lips again, scant inches from his own, and then back up to his eyes. “When… When were the others? Give me dates.”

Stubborn. Stubborn idiot.

“Dates?” he echoes. He counts them off on his fingers. “Pretty much every rooftop meal we’ve had in the past three years, the first time you came with me to Sunday dinner with Aunt May and I caught you in my room going through my old Polaroids from high school, that time you nearly burnt the apartment down because you tried to flambe, our first sleepover together when I woke up and you were in the kitchen making pancakes and—”

“That’s… Those aren’t the kind of dates I meant,” Wade says weakly.

His frustration spikes. He’s being _impossible._

“Fuck you, it’s the kind you get,” he snaps, prodding his chest sharply. “What does it even matter? You’re my best friend, Wade! You’re my roommate. My literal _partner in fighting crime._ Why would— You’re so entwined in every aspect of my life I don’t even know what it would look like to not have you in it. We’ve never cared about the soulmate bullshit before—why start now? Don’t— Don’t do this. Please. I…” His voice cracks. “If you want to ignore it, fine. We don’t need to change. I’m happy exactly as we are so—,”

Wade kisses him.

He sucks in a sharp breath as Wade’s mouth, warm and firm and everything he’s wanted for so long, moves against his. With a hand on either side of his jaw, he kisses him back, moving forward until he steps on Wade’s toes and their chests are pressed together.

Wade pulls back.

He chases his warmth but their lips part and when he opens his eyes, Wade is staring down at him, the lower half of his face blotted with red, his eyes wide, dark, and stunned.

“You’re serious,” he whispers.

He looks into his eyes and says, “So serious, Wade.”

“I… I dunno. This is…”

He puts his hands on Wade’s hips and says, “Wade, I’m in love with you. Say you’re in love with me too.”

Wade laughs. Off-kilter and breathless. Eyes wild. “You know I love it when you boss me arou—,”

“Say it, Wade,” he insists. “You’ve been saying it for years. Say it again.”

“Petey, I…” He stares down at him. “I don’t want to ruin you.”

“You won’t. You _can’t._ Nothing to ruin, remember? There’s no perfection wrapped in spandex here. We’ve both got our issues. You make dealing with them easier. You make me _better_ and I do the same for you and you know it.”

“This isn’t real.”

“Yes, it is!" he exclaims. "What are White and Yellow saying?”

“Yellow is just symbols now. White is…”

He narrows his eyes. “What’s White saying, Wade?”

“That this is the best hallucination we’ve ever had and your face is going to explode into bugs any moment now and that I’ve probably never even met Spider-Man and this has all been a delusion and—,”

“Fuck you, White,” he spits. He’s never wanted to strangle a disembodied box more than he does now. “This is _real,_ Wade.” He runs his thumbs over his cheekbones. “You feel that? Real. The past five years? Real.” He reaches past him and flips on the faucet then pats his wet hand against Wade’s cheek. “Real. It’s all real. You’re here and you’re with me and we’re real.”

“I dunno, Pete. This is… This is a lot. What if… I don’t know.”

“What if what?”

“I don’t know!” Wade exclaims. He tries to step back and crashes into the sink again. “I don’t know what I don’t know! I’ve got every wet dream I’ve ever had pressed up against my chest and insisting he’s real while the voice in my head says this is too good to be true.”

“White, I swear to fucking—,”

“Not White,” Wade says, catching his wrist before he can do God knows what with his raised hand.

He falters. “Yellow?”

“Not Yellow.”

He stares into Wade’s eyes and something like hopelessness drains down the back of his throat and floods his chest. What is he supposed to do? How can he fix this?

“Wade…” His chest is caving in. His eyes burn. “Please don’t go. Okay? We’ll… We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure something out, but please please don’t go. Give me time. I promise I’ll figure it out.”

“Baby boy, don’t cry. You’re breaking my heart.”

“How do you think mine feels!” he explodes but then immediately regrets it. He steps back but Wade tightens his grip on his wrist. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey come here. Come here.”

Wade pulls him against his chest and he wraps his arms around his waist. Probably too tight—like if he holds on he can keep him here. With him. He can’t help but wonder if this is it. Is this the last time he’ll get to hug him? Is this the last time he’ll let him pet his hair, smell his body wash, listen to his heartbeat? Is Wade going to disappear again only this time for good?

It’s not fair. It’s not fair! He’d have happily lived the rest of his life never knowing. It wouldn’t have been perfect but it would have been better than this. Anything would be better than this. Getting this close. Knowing that it was Wade all along, only to have him walk away. It hurts worse than any injury.

The tears come harder and faster spurred on by the dark turn of his thoughts but he refuses to make a sound. He already begged him to stay. His cards are on the table. It’s up to Wade what he does with them.

“You’re spiraling, aren’t you?” Wade asks, suddenly pulling back and catching sight of his face. His expression tightens anxiously. “Shit Petey, let me put on pants and then we can take this to the living room.”

Involuntarily, he glances at the window over the toilet.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wade says, pinching his chin and turning his face back to him. “Even if you’re a hallucination I couldn’t leave you like this, baby boy.”

He nods and even though there’s a part of him that doesn’t believe him—the part that was left by his parents and left by Uncle Ben and left by Gwen and Harry and MJ—he steps out of the bathroom and props the busted door over the janky frame before drifting into the living room.

He shuts out the rushed rustling coming from the bathroom and moves on autopilot. He can’t stand around wondering if Wade’s ever coming back out of that room. He can’t. So he puts on a shirt (one of Wade’s because fuck him). He tidies up. He clears the trash from the coffee table and bookshelf then grabs the lukewarm soda cans off the kitchen counter and sets them beside the long-cold take-out bag on the coffee table. For a lack of anything else to do, he’s moments away from setting the table with glasses and forks and plates when, with an unholy screech, Wade shifts aside the bathroom door and squeezes through the gap.

Inexplicably his eyes fill with tears again. He stayed. He’s still here. He didn’t run.

“Jesus, Pete. You really did a number on this thing.” He settles the door back in place and turns. A myriad of expressions flit across his face as his gaze settles on him. “Baby boy, you’ve gotta quit looking at me with those big hurt Bambi eyes.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles thickly, averting his eyes and quickly swiping away a tear that rolls free. “Sorry.”

“That’s not what I meant. Come here, honey.”

He shakes his head. “No, we should eat. I umm, I got you a soda. It’s probably warm by now. D’you want ice? I just… I’ll get ice.”

He ducks into the kitchen without waiting for a response. With shaking hands, he fetches a glass and plunks a few ice cubes into it then holds it for a long moment, just breathing and collecting himself. When he feels composed enough to re-enter the front room he turns and nearly drops the glass when Wade is right there, not two steps away from him.

“Shit! Don’t— Don’t do that,” he says, shoving the glass into his hands.

Wade takes it and sets it on the counter. “I don’t like seeing you like this, especially knowing it’s my fault.”

“Not your fault,” he says to Wade’s shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s hard to believe good things happen. I get it. If I got regular hallucinations I probably wouldn’t trust anything in my life right now either. It’s all too good to be true.”

“I wanna believe it,” Wade says. “You being weirdly quiet and nice is actually helping, I think.”

He looks up. “Really?” Then he narrows his eyes. “You’re just saying that so I’ll keep pampering you.”

“Maybe,” Wade says, the beginnings of a grin lighting his lips before it fades and he grows serious. “No, it really is. My subconscious wouldn’t dream this up. It’s too unrealistic. OOC as the fanfic writers say. It’s… Things feel less…inside out now. I really thought I was lost in the sauce for a minute earlier.”

“That’s the worst news I’ve ever heard.”

“How so?”

“That means I have to keep being nice. It might kill me.”

Wade laughs his booming cackle of a laugh and something settles into place in his chest. Everything isn’t okay yet, but he doesn’t feel like he’s one wrong move from pitching overboard and drowning. It’s like he’s been handed a life jacket. He still might fall, but he’ll probably survive it.

“Pete,” Wade says tenderly, stroking a calloused thumb over his cheek.

He closes his eyes. “Don’t say it.”.

Wade doesn’t drop his hand. “Why not? You did.”

“Say it when you’re sure I’m real.”

“You say that like I ever will be.”

“You will. You can bet on it.”

“That's a ballsy bet, Webs. Real ballsy.”

He looks up and meets Wade’s gaze. “You’re the safest bet I’ve ever made.” He raises his chin. “And I’ve made _a lot_ of bets.”

Wade laughs lightly and drops his hand from his cheek to rest on his hip, moving in closer. “You’re somethin’ else.”

He ducks his head and shakes it. “Not until you’re sure I’m real, Wade.”

Wade squeezes his hip and then steps back. “Let’s eat. I think I’ve got some stuff to explain to you.”

~*~

Feeling steadier with a meal in his belly, he settles on the couch with his feet tucked under Wade’s thigh. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear his explanation for why in the past 30+ years they’ve been soulmates, he never received so much as a doodle from him but this might be the only chance he’ll get so he’s not going to blow it.

“I dunno how justified you’ll find all this,” Wade warns. He’s fiddling with a napkin, elbows on his knees as he folds and unfolds it repeatedly. “You might hate me just as much as you always have after you hear it.”

“I’ve never hated you.”

“Your soulmate, I mean.”

“You are my soulmate and I’ve never hated you.” He wants to tell him that he’s already forgiven him for everything for the simple reason of him being him, but that might be too much and he _does_ want to hear his explanation. He can guess what his reasons were in more recent years, but what about before that? What about when they were kids?

“Right,” Wade says, obviously unconvinced. “Well, as most shitty stories start, this one starts with shitty parents. You know I’m a little bit older than you, right?”

“Is eight years a little bit?”

“It’s all perspective, baby. But… I dunno. For an eight-year-old, eight years is a lifetime, you know? And I… My parents weren’t great about it. When I hadn’t bonded by five they assumed I never would and—You know how some people are about the unbonded.”

“They abused you,” he says lowly.

Wade shrugs a shoulder and then looks up with a crooked grin. “My dad beat the hell out of me whenever I stayed still long enough but that was because of my personality, I’m pretty sure. Totally unrelated.”

He doesn’t smile. “Where’s your dad now?”

“Six feet under and long since eaten up by the hard-working wormies of Vancouver.”

With an unhappy grunt, he leans back against the armrest and crosses his arms.

“Aww, Petey were you wanting to defend my honor? That’s so sweet!”

He shoots him an unimpressed look.

Wade balls up his napkin and tosses it into the take-out bag, a clean and easy shot, before turning cross-legged to face him and pulling Peter's feet into his lap. “So that was dear old dad. Mom went more the mental route, telling me how worthless I am and that the reason I didn’t get a soulmate is because no one would want to be landed with me for a lifetime. I never thought I took it to heart because her and dad were soulmates but they were awful to each other and who would want to get tied to someone like that for their whole life, you know?”

“Where’s your mom?” he asks innocently.

Wade laughs and tickles the bottom of his foot.

“Cut it out!”

“You’re so cute. Don’t know, don’t care. I got the hell away from her the day I turned 16 and never looked back.”

He grunts again and Wade grins.

“I love it went you get all punchy, Webs.”

“Shut up and tell the rest of the story.”

“You’d think after all these years you’d get less contradictory with your demands but—,”

_“Wade.”_

“ _Fine,_ bossy pants. The bond showed up and I thought I was dying. It was the middle of recess and I just keeled over. So thanks for that.”

“No problem. I take it you weren’t excited.”

Wade snorts. “It took me _months_ to figure out what that feeling in my chest was and then when I did I was mortified. I was _eight,_ practically a grown man, and I was bonded to an _infant._ I thought my parents were right. No one could possibly want me so I got matched up with some loser baby.”

“So you’ve always been an idiot.”

“If only I’d known back then how _cute_ my loser baby soulmate would turn out!” He snickers. “It’s funny how long it took me to realize that babies grow up.”

“So you just decided to never even try?” he asks. “What about when you got older?”

“I’m getting there! _Relax._ Scribbles showed up when I was ten so I started wearing hoodies all the time. Everybody else had actual drawings and notes from their soulmates but I had stupid baby scribbles all over my arms. No offense, honey, but a child prodigy you were not. Not in the art department at least.”

“Woe is me,” he says dryly. “But what about when—,”

“God, you’re relentless! Just shut up and listen!”

“Then story-tell faster! I’m going to be gray by the time you finish!”

“Oh sweetheart, you’re already going gray.”

His hands fly to his hair, covering the silver streaks that have started coming in above his ears. He didn’t think they were that noticeable.

Wade laughs and flicks his toe. “You’ll be a silver fox in no time.”

“Wade, come on.”

He pulls a face. “Fine. Everything was hunky-dory until scribbles showed up all over my face right in the middle of lunch. I was like 12 and kids that age are mean as fuck. They laughed themselves spitless and the meaner ones called me things. I didn’t even understand all of ‘em at first but I got familiar.” He ticks them off on his fingers as he lists them. “Pedophile, cradle-robber, predator—all kinds of horrible things. The scribbles were gone by the time I stormed out of there, but…” He shrugs. “It was too late. Kids have long memories. Man, I hated my soulmate for that.”

“I… I think I remember that,” he says. He closes his eyes as a vague memory plays behind his eyelids. He was so frustrated—so _angry—_ tired of being ignored by the other heart he could feel along-side his own. So he decided to make it impossible to continue to do so.

He tugs the memory, desperate for every scrap of detail he can dredge from it. He’d forgotten it but now he remembers. He remembers the warm wet of the washcloth, too rough as it was dragged over his skin, his mother’s face only inches from his own—void of her features, her expression. That nuance has long-since been lost to time. She held his hand against that warm spot in his chest and told him that she didn’t know why his soulmate hadn’t talked to him but that it’s incredibly disrespectful to write or draw anywhere that can’t be easily covered.

He didn’t like her reprimand. He stomped away to his room and cried into his pillow.

“I was so mad. I could _feel_ you. I didn’t understand why you were ignoring me.”

“Yeah, well I hated your guts,” Wade says. “I only ever used pencil after that, or crayons if I was feeling artsy. I refused to take the chance of even a drop of ink hitting my skin. From then on, as far as I was concerned I no longer had a soulmate.”

Peter closes his eyes, the weight of those words settling over him like a lead-lined blanket.

Wade squeezes his foot. “Don’t make that face. We were dumb kids. What did we know? As far as I was concerned you were better off without me anyway. Doesn’t matter because I joined the military as soon as I was old enough and got the hell out of that place. But it was—,”

He falters. “It was a different kind of cage. I did things I’ll always regret under the exoneration of following orders. I couldn’t… Those are things I couldn’t ever expect a 10, 11, 12-year-old to understand or accept. I couldn’t even accept them. I got discharged and took up mercenary work because why the hell not? I was already ruined and it’s what I’m good at. So… So that’s what I did.”

“Then Vanessa?” Peter asks.

Wade smiles but it turns out sad. “Yeah. She got me, you know? I didn’t have to water myself down for her. She just… accepted me. Despite what I’d done. Despite what I kept doing. She took the crazy that I threw at her and spun it right back at me. She was… She wasn’t my soulmate but how could anyone be better? How could some fresh-faced 18-year-old understand me better than she did? I’d already given up on the whole soulmate thing at that point anyway so I figured, why the hell shouldn’t I marry her, you know?”

“I get it,” he says. He can fill in the rest for himself. After Vanessa came the cancer. Or, he supposes that was mid-Vanessa. Then Weapon X. Then Vanessa’s death. It all left him too ugly, too crazy, too broken. The universe obviously made a mistake bonding him with _anyone,_ let alone some nerdy _kid._

“Enter Spider-Man,” Wade concludes softly. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Pete. There’s no way you’re my soulmate. It’s… You’re Spider-Man. You’re _you_ and I’m… I’m just Wade.”

“I like just Wade a whole lot,” he says quietly. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re the perfect soulmate. At least for me.” He pauses but Wade doesn’t respond or lift his head so he asks, “Can I try something?”

Wade glances up at him curiously so he takes that as permission.

In the kitchen, he digs through the junk drawer until he finds a permanent marker then resumes his spot on the couch and uncaps it. He traces the tip over his skin and watches in fascination as what he draws comes to life on Wade’s arm near instantaneously. It’s lumpy and misshapen—a mix of his piss-poor art skills and Wade’s uneven skin— but he’s no less awed by it. An imperfect drawing on an imperfect man—perfect in his eyes.

He caps the marker and lifts his chin with all the stubborn determination he can summon.

“I’m not washing it off until you believe me that this is real,” he says as Wade stares down at his arm, eyes wide with shock. “Now go drink yourself stupid at Sister Margaret’s and let Weasel laugh his ass off at you for having a big ugly _dick_ on your arm.”

He moves to stand, but Wade lurches forward and grips his forearm tight, kneeling on the center cushion. “Pete, I’m in love with you.”

He jerks back but Wade doesn’t let go. “You’re not supposed to say that until—,”

“You’re real,” Wade says with a fevered look in his eyes. “This is real and I’m in love with you.”

“Wha— You just want me to wash my arm.”

“Baby boy, I never want you to wash that arm again. This is real and I’m in love with you. Can I kiss you now?”

“I… What? This is— Slow down. What made you—?”

“Look at this!” Wade exclaims, shoving his inked arm under his nose. “Look at this ugly fucked up piece of shit!”

“Wade, it’s just skin. You’re not—,”

“Not _me._ Look at your terrible little dick! It’s so unbelievably awful there’s no way my sub-conscious could have made this up! This is real and I’m in love with you. Do I get to kiss you now or what?”

He gapes at him. “Are you— Dammit Wade, you ruin everything!” He rips his arm out of Wade's grip and sticks an accusatory finger in his face. “How is it that I had to wait over thirty years to properly meet my soulmate and it’s the least romantic thing ever!?”

“You’re the one that drew a dick on me!”

“I— You deserved it!”

“We’ve gotten off topic. Is that a yes?”

“ _Yes,_ it’s a yes you dumb motherf—,”

He cuts off with a gasp as Wade yanks him forward by the front of his shirt and he nearly topples into his lap. Their lips meet and Wade kisses him with near-frantic energy, cupping the back of his head with one hand while the other slips under his shirt leaving a trail of heat up his back, beaconing him closer.

He pulls back with a gasp, blood pounding, head spinning, and Wade’s name on his lips.

“Too much?” Wade asks, breathing heavily.

“No.” He pulls his shirt over his head and seals their lips together once more as he finds the button on Wade’s jeans.

Wade pulls back. “Are we moving too fast?”

“It’s been five years, Wade. Take off your pants.”

“Mmm, love it when you boss me around, Webs.”

~*~

_Five Years and Four Months Since the Start_

The sun is shining too brightly, stinging his eyes as it glints off of the polished granite. A cool gust sends a flurry of dry leaves skittering past and MJ tucks closer against his side while on her other side, their arms looped together same as hers and Peter’s, Harry does the same.

It’s the first time the four of them have been together in twelve years and it’s not the same and his heart feels like a boulder in his chest, heavy and cumbersome, but it also feels like healing. It feels like a new foundation has been set, replacing the old cracked and crumbling slab with a fresh unblemished slate. It’s solid and level and ready for whatever they build upon it.

His throat is raw, but he hasn’t cried. They had over a decade of catching up to do and they all owe it to Gwen to bring her up to speed, sparing no detail. His fingers and toes are numb with cold but he feels clean.

“We miss you, Gwendy,” MJ says for all of them. It’s not a goodbye. It’s a see you soon.

Harry stoops and fixes the bouquet before linking back onto MJ’s arm and then as a unit they turn and make their way to the gate. He glances back at her tombstone, dappled sunlight spilling across it as leafy shadows wave in farewell.

“So lunch,” MJ says, the waver in her voice nearly imperceptible. “Wade’s making his pot roast, right? With the little potatoes?”

“Yeah as long as nothing—,”

He’s interrupted by a familiar voice singing distantly but growing rapidly closer along with a strange rhythmic trundling.

“Spider-Man! Spider-Man! Does— uh, whatever a Spider-Man can. Is he close? I hope nearby! I could use some help from that spider guy! Look oouuuuuut! Let me know if you see Spiiiderrr-Maaann!”

“I think that’s your cue,” Harry says, snickering.

From between two buildings, Deadpool appears, sprinting for all he’s worth and on his heels is… a giant wheel?

“What on Earth—,”

Deadpool feints left then turns right, headed towards the cemetery. Towards them. The wheel turns, unfooled by the feint, obviously following Deadpool, and scrapes a building, sending a cloud of dust and brick showering down onto the sidewalk and into the street. Cars lay on their horns and swerve, nearly colliding as they desperately avoid the wheel.

“Go,” MJ says, unlinking her arm from his. “We’ll meet you at your place.”

“Don’t expect us to wait to eat,” Harry warns.

“This’ll be quick!” he calls, already slipping off his backpack as he sprints for the nearest dark corner. “Stay away from the street!”

“We’ll be safe!” MJ shouts after him.

Normally he’d call her out on dodging such a simple instruction but Harry will make sure she doesn’t do anything too risky. As long as he can keep that big stupid wheel on the road, they should be able to get clear to safety. Luckily, he’s been the victim of Parker luck often enough to know to wear his suit under his clothes whenever he has anything important going on so it only takes a matter of seconds to strip off his civilian clothes, web his backpack to the base of a tall well-shaded mausoleum, and tug on his mask and then he’s off—webbing swiftly to where Deadpool is running and singing. He’s started to sound a bit ragged.

“No bat signal?” he calls out, hopping onto a street light and firing out a web before zipping to the other side of the street and doing the same—back and forth, back and forth, weaving a web as quickly as he can.

“There you are,” Wade gasps. “Gimme a boost?”

He obliges, attaching a pair of web strands to Wade’s shoulder and opposite hip and yanking him up and out of the path of the wheel.

“No Powerpuff hotline? This is all I get?”

“Budget cuts,” Wade pants, hands on his knees. “You know how it is.”

“Thankless work.”

The wheel crashes into his web, ripping up a couple of streetlights as its momentum is brought to an abrupt halt, but the webs hold. He quickly fires off a few more to make sure it stays put.

“I’ll thank you later if that’s what you’re wanting, baby boy,” Wade says, mask wiggling as he waggles would-be eyebrows.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I hope you’ll hold me to something else too,” he says with a significant look up and down his body.

“Remember Harry and MJ are coming over for—,”

“My pot roast!” Wade exclaims, bolting upright.

“It’ll be fine. It’s in the slow cooker, right?”

“It’ll get dry if I don’t baste it!”

“I’m sure it’ll be f—,”

 _“Don’t._ Don’t pretend you know anything about cooking. I still haven’t been able to get the char off of the baking sheet from last time you used it.”

“There was an emergency!”

“Buy-one-get-one-free pizzas at Joe’s doesn’t count as an emergency!”

“Shows what you know. Fine, whatever. Go squirt your meat with your meat juice—I’ll wrap this up. What’s the story here anyway?”

“No idea. Dude popped up and was shouting stuff about waiting in traffic or something? I dunno. His mustache is magnificent though. I could watch that thing all day. Puts Jameson’s to shame, I swear.”

“Impossible.”

“It’s true! Wait ‘til you see it! But maybe don’t compare it to a woolly mammoth because then he’ll chase after you in his big wheel.”

He snorts. “Noted.”

Wade readies his rappelling gun and adds, “And pick up drinks on your way home. All we’ve got is that sour milk and tap water.”

“Why— If it’s sour why do we still have it?”

“Because I wanted to see if you’d notice. You ate an entire bowl of cereal, just stone-faced. Totally out of it. It was incredible but I owe Weasel ten bucks now because of you.”

“Is that why my stomach’s been off all day? What the hell, Wade!”

“Whoops! Gotta go! See you at home, sweetums!”

Wade leaps from the roof, giggling to himself as he fires a cable from his rappelling gun and swings to the ground.

He watches him go with an exasperated sigh. Life with Wade is a lot of things, but at least it’s never boring.

“SPIDER-MAN! Get down here and fight me like a man!”

“Why does it always gotta be like a man?” he mutters, checking his web-shooters. “Why doesn’t anyone ever want to fight like a spider? Why do I always gotta be the one to accommodate them, huh? Just once I’d like a little consideration. That’s not too much to ask.”

He sighs and steps up to the edge of the roof.

“Let’s make this quick, pal,” he says, flipping off the ledge and deploying a web to slow his descent. “I’ve got dinner plans.”

Oh shit. Wade was right. That mustache is _phenomenal._

“Has anyone ever told you your mustache could be in a museum?” he asks. “Right between the saber-toothed tigers and the sloths.”

~*~

Big Wheel’s incomprehensible scream of rage is almost as satisfying through the TV as it was in real life.

“I love watching you work, babe,” Wade says in his ear, attention rapt on the Spider-Man on the news as he quickly and efficiently webs up Big Wheel in a matter of seconds before webbing off.

He’s on the floor between Wade’s legs, his back against his chest while Wade rests his chin on his shoulder. They were supposed to be putting on a movie to finish out the night but Wade got a text from MJ telling him to turn on the news. It’s interesting that the angle of the footage seems to be coming from the area just outside the cemetery where he left Harry and MJ before joining the fight. Very curious.

“Can we watch a movie now?”

“Only if it’s Definitely Maybe.”

He groans. “No more rom-coms. That’s all you’ve wanted to watch for months!”

“I’m in a romantic mood! What about The Proposal?”

“You have an unhealthy obsession with Ryan Reynolds. Should I be jealous?”

“People tell me I look just like him all the time!”

“No, they don’t. No one says that.”

Wade gasps. “First you draw this hideous animal on my flesh and now you’re insulting my good looks. It’s like I hardly know you anymore.”

Peter looks down at his arms. His skin that he thought would remain blank and undecorated for the rest of his life now sports a variety of doodles, all shockingly poorly done, and several swear words in bright glittering letters of all colors of the rainbow.

“Are you talking about the weasel?” he asks after a thoughtful pause.

“Is that what it is? I thought it was a rat that got run over by a truck. You really need to work on your—,”

“You drew that one, Wade.”

“I… I did? Are you sure?”

“Yeah to remind you to stop at Sister Margaret’s? And pick up Weasel’s donation for F.E.A.S.T.’s holiday banquet next month? Ringing any bells?”

“Oh shit!” Wade lurches upright. Luckily they’re already on the floor or Peter would have gone tumbling.

“Calm down, I already picked it up,” he gripes, throwing an elbow into Wade’s stomach for good measure.

“Oh.” Wade relaxes back against the couch. “You did?”

“Well, _yeah._ How could I forget with this beautiful reminder on my arm for the past week? You’ve gotta stop using so much permanent marker, man.”

“You complained about the gel pens!”

“Only because the glitter was getting everywhere! It was on my _lips,_ Wade! People noticed! They thought I was trying a new look!”

“Well, maybe you should be more selective of where you put your lips, Petey. There’s no glitter on my face so where have your lips been straying to, hmm?”

“If you really want me to stop—,”

“Never mind! Just kidding, just kidding!”

He settles back against his chest with a lightly grumbled, “that’s what I thought,” and kisses the underside of Wade’s wrist where ‘Wade’ is carefully penned in Wade’s blocky handwriting. It complements the chicken scratch ‘Peter’ on the other wrist. They missed out on a lot of the usual soulmate things, such as exchanging names via ink on skin, but that doesn’t mean they can’t make up for some of them now.

“Do you have a pen?” he asks.

Wade pulls one out from under the couch cushion and passes it to him wordlessly.

It’s sparkly and pink.

He shakes his head but uncaps it and in the center of the weasel’s flat un-shapely body, he writes a date.

“What’s that for?” Wade asks.

“Our appointment to make these bad boys permanent.” He runs a thumb over Wade’s name on his wrist. “I was thinking we could make a day of it. Maybe check out that new cart over on 38th? See what the hubbub’s about before we go to the tattoo parlor.”

“Ooo I hear the falafels are swoon-worthy. Can we check out that new boutique near there too? Dopinder heard they’ve got heeled men’s boots. _Pretty_ ones.”

Peter caps the pen and presses a kiss to Wade’s jaw and says, “It’s a date.”

**~*~**

_This is the beginning._

**~*~**

**~*~**

**Bonus After The Credits Scene**

**~*~**

“Betty! I didn't know you got married to Ned.”

“Oh yes well, I didn't want to mess up my alliteration by taking his last name, you know?” She laughs.

Her allitera—

He sucks in a breath and swings around to meet Wade’s wide-eyed stare.

“Not it!” they both yell and then, “I said it first!”

“Dammit, Wade! Can’t you just—,”

“I’ve got all three names in on it! You’ve only got two! It’s only fair that I—,”

“But I’m the last Parker! If I change my name then, poof! Gone! No more Parkers!”

“Yeah well, I’m the last Wilson!”

“But you didn’t even like your family!”

"Oh ouch, Peter," Betty says, stricken. “That was a little—,”

“No, no,” Wade says. “It’s a fair point.” He turns solemnly to Peter. “You know what we have to do right?”

“I’m ready whenever you are.”

They ready their fists.

“However this turns out,” Wade says, “I’ll still love you.”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

“Whatever you want, baby boy.”

They stare each other down for a long moment and then in unison, they move. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”

“Oh come on!”

“HA! I win!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a heckin fun time. Fun little reminder that when I started writing I thought this would be a quick little 25k ditty. HA!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, kudosed, and/or commented! Scream at me in the comments? Or on tumblr @sarah-sandwich 🥰


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